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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA. 



A SUMMER HOLIDAY L\ EIJEOPE. 



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MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE'S 
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A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE, $1.25 

ON THE WING. Rambling Notes of a 

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BY MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE AND 
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LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 



A SUMMER HOLIDAY 
IN EUROPE • 



BY ^ 

MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE 

AUTHOR OF "MEXICO — PICTURESQUE, POLITICAL, progressive" " POEMS ' 
"ON THE wing" etc. 




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Copyright, 1890, by Mary Elizabeth Blake. 
A/l Rights Reserved. 



A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

INTRODUCTION ix 

CHAPTER I. 
THE VOYAGE— 

The ship : sitting on deck — An epitome of life — The heart of the 
ship — Sailing along the Irish coast — Queenstown and harbour 
— The spring growth, and the young birds — Cork . . . l-io 

CHAPTER II. 

GLENGARIFF AND KILLARNEY— 

Presence of soldiers — Police — Government by force — Restrictions 
of property — Stamp of royalty — Roadside pictures — Showers 
— Glengariff — Hotel — The drive to Killarney , . . 13-22 

CHAPTER III. 

DUBLIN AND SUBURBS— 

Character of warmth in the people — Courtesy of the shopkeepers 
— Rambles — Historic places — Trinity College — Killiney — 
Bray — The Hospitals — The country 23-30 

CHAPTER IV. 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF PARIS— 

The journey to Paris — Impressions from the district and scenery — 
Women at work — The dazzle and brightness of Paris — The 
great square of the Place de la Concord — Historic contrasts 
and effects — Provisions in markets, shops, caf^s , . . 33-40 

CHAPTER V. 

A FESTIVAL DAY IN PARIS— 

Opening of the Exposition — All the nationalities in gala dress — 
The Trocadero— The Exposition — The welcome of the Presi- 
dent—The opening : the night illuminations — Crowds . . 41-48 



VI CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER VI. 
THE GREAT EXPOSITION— 

PAGE 

Beauty and arrangement of the grounds — The Eiffel Tower — The 
joy of the people — The triumph of industry — The Pavilion of 
Liberal Arts — Painting and sculpture — Fine arts . . , 49-56 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE VICTORIES OF PEACE AND LABOUR— 

The Exposition — A world's fair — The International Congresses — 
Questions of philanthropy, industry, inventions, temperance, 
peace, &c. — Artistic influences — Paris a city of leisure . . 57-64 

CHAPTER VIII. 

AMONG THE PARIS CHURCHES— 

Notre Dame — The Madeleine — Funerals — The poorer classes — 

The struggles of the Communists — New Paris — Old Paris . 65-72 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE PARISIAN AT HOME— 

Attractions of the city to the people — Cheap enjoyments — The 
comforts — The cleanings — Habits of life, meals — Temperance 
of the people — Entertainments 73-8o 

CHAPTER X. 

THE WOMEN OF PARIS— 

Housekeeping — Suites of rooms — Little home cooking — The patis- 
sier — Omnipresent salad — Coffee — The children with their 
parents — Wives in the business of their husbands — Dress 
of children — Amusements of children — Toys — The dangers 
of the streets 81-89 

CHAPTER XL 

THE WAYS OF THE FRENCH WORLD— 

False impressions of other peoples — Life a movable picture — The 

activity of French life — Discontent — Temper of the people . 91-96 

CHAPTER XII. 
THE INVALIDES AND PERE LA CHAISE— 

Napoleon's name — The Tomb — The Old Guard — The laws of 
Napoleon — Woman's rights under the law — The city taxes — 
The Octroi — Sevres — The Museum — Pottery . . . 97-104 



CONTENTS. VU 



CHAPTER XIII. 
THE EIFFEL TOWER— 

PAGE 

Methods of ascent — Looking down from the first platform — The 
restaurants — A climb to the next stage — The view — Ascent to 
the top by the lifts — Looking down — The toy world . . 105-110 

CHAPTER XIV. 
ORLEANS— 

Appearance of the country — The harvest — The streams of water 
— Farm buildings — Cleanness of town and country — The 
Maid of Orleans— The Museums— Church of St. Paul— The 
subiirbs III-118 

CHAPTER XY. 
BLOIS— 

The valley of the Loire — Blois for a time the capital of France — 
The Catholics and Huguenots — Scenic views — The Chateau 
— Historical associations , .119-126 

CHAPTER XVL 
TOURS— 

A beautiful garden — The Cathedral — Other historic places round 
it — Chenon^eaux — Catherine de Medicis — The Chateau — 
The Inn — Care in railway travelling . . , , . 127-134 

CHAPTER XVII. 
NEUCHATEL— 

Effect of contrasts — The mountains — The river — Social habits 137-142 

CHAPTER XVIII. 
BERNE— 

Picturesque Switzerland — Women on the land — The old houses — 

The rushing river — The dog as a carrier — The bear symbol 143-148 

CHAPTER XIX. 
INTERLAKEN— 

Its origin — Impressions of the scene — The Hoheweg — The Jung- 
frau — The dances, gardens, hotels — The contribution to art 
in the Swiss villages 1 49- 156 

CHAPTER XX. 
LUCERNE— 

The British everywhere — Mount Pilatus — Beauty everywhere in 
Switzerland — The students on vacation — Lakes of Thun and 
Brienz — The Giessbach— The excursions on the lake . 157-162 



vm CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXI. 
THE RIGHI— 

PAQK 

Ascent by railway — Beauty of the scene — The hotels and pensions 
— The summit a wondrous picture — The history of Swiss 
independence . « 1 63- 170 



CHAPTER XXII. 

GENEVA— 

The memory of Calvin and Voltaire — Voltaire's chapel and tomb 
— The Museum — The Public Gardens — The University— The 
city and gardens — The public spirit and history . . 1 71-178 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

CHAMOUNIX AND MONT BLANC— 

The diligence — Ascents and descents — The majesty of Mont Blanc 

—The Tete Noire— The gorge of Trient . . . .179-186 



CHAPTER XXIV. 
LONDON— 

A return from Paradise to the commonplace of life — Hard to 
classify impressions — The rich stores of the Museum — Notable 
places— Contrasts, rich and poor — Seven Dials — Billingsgate 
— The Whitechapel district — Philanthropy . , . 1 89- 1 96 

CHAPTER XXV. 
LONDON {continued)— 

Footsteps of the great — The Temple — The river — Westminster 
Abbey — Chelsea — The charities — Foundling Hospital — 
Christ's Hospital— The Charterhouse — Toynbee Hall . 197-203 



INTKODUCTION. 



The real traveller, like the true poet, should bo bom, not 
made. He should possess within himself certain qualities 
which would be beyond the power of circumstances to alter, 
and which would form, so to speak, his spiritual outfit. He 
should be by nature adaptable, and by grace sympathetic. He 
should have the power of disentangling himself from the 
home environment, and of looking upon the differences in 
custom which belong to other peoples, without that unalter- 
able belief in the superiority of his own which renders one deaf 
and blind to every advantage. He should possess an eye 
which has been trained beforehand to some understanding of 
the beauty and majesty of the natural world, so that he can 
make comparison of effect, and read the message of sea and 
sky, valley and mountain-top. He should possess an intel- 
ligence somewhat trained by study into a knowledge of the 
past, so that there shall be a historic background against 
which the foreground of the visible present may stand in 
relief. And he should have at least as much good health 
as is ensured by good digestion and a clear conscience. 

It is because these qualities are so frequently omitted, 
that travel has become the heavy and wearisome pastime it 



X INTRODUCTION. 

SO often is, instead of the inspiration and delight it always 
should be. Fashion has set its seal upon the habit of 
wandering : it has become a conventional procedure, with 
set periods upon which to proceed over set routes, to the 
accompaniment of set surroundings. Guide-books, instead of 
inclinations, map the way; expenses are calculated according 
to the judgment or fancy of others. There is no longer the 
ardour or desire which makes difficulty vanish ; and although 
the facilities for journeying have increased a thousandfold, 
they have added in no such degree to the ease and content 
of the individual. He has grown so accustomed to be cared 
for and tenderly dealt with, that every molehill of possible 
inconvenience becomes a mountain of difficulty to fret or 
fume over. Unprepared, through lack of preliminary train- 
ing, to make comparison or draw deduction, he resents as a 
personal affront each enforced violation of his habitual rule 
of conduct, and makes a grievance of every custom which 
differs from his own. So that in spite of steam and elec- 
tricity, of couriers and cooks, of the miracles of art and 
of science, he returns to his fireside as narrow in mind and 
as poor in imagination as when he left it. 

But to the happy mortal who is dowered with this divine 
gift of insight, what an age is this in which to enrich exist- 
ence ! There is scarce a spot of the known world which is 
not open to his enamoured glance ; there is no time too 
short to afford him some precious passing glimpse of beauty, 
nor too long to be filled with delight to the eye and joy to 
the understanding. Even moderate circumstance, short of 
absolute poverty, need not interfere with his desire, if only 



INTRODUCTION. XI 

common sense is allowed to hold the helm of affairs. The 
cost is made to suit the necessities of so many different 
incomes, the positive requirements are so small, and the 
efforts to grade supply so that it may meet every demand 
so strenuous, that there are few indeed who need deprive 
themselves wholly of the pleasure of a holiday outing. The 
will and the way go together. 

In the material preparation, whether the pilgrim be one 
of sentiment or convention, there are certain rules which so 
simplify routine that they should be considered as axioms. 
Leaving out of consideration those who are a law unto 
themselves, who travel with a retinue, and whose bank 
accounts are so plethoric that a pound is the same thing 
as a penny, there remains the rank and file of the army of 
tourists with whom expense is a question, and luggage as 
much impedimenta as it was to the Roman cohorts. The 
Modern has learned the lesson of its incpnvenience as well 
as the Ancient. Especially in Europe, where the dense fog 
of ignorance has not yet been dissipated by the sweetness 
and light of the American check system, it is absolutely 
matter of necessity to travel in light marching order be- 
tween places at which no long stay is to be made. In these 
days of the ever-present shop for every need and fancy 
under the sun, little more is necessary to be carried about 
with one than a couple of changes of inner, and one of outer 
clothing, in case of accident. Any liberal hand-bag will 
contain these items, especially with the addition of a strap 
for a rug and warm wrap. Both of these can be lifted into 
the compartment of the railway train, or the van of the 



xn INTRODUCTION. 

diligence in whicli their owner is travelling, so that there 
shall be neither enforced delay nor worry at breaks in the 
journey. A small satchel suspended from the. shoulders or 
the waist, to hold guide-book, tickets, and purse, will be found 
a great comfort. Without being clumsy, this could be so 
enlarged as to hold a simple lunch and a flask of any tonic 
which one has been accustomed to use in emergencies. 
With such an outfit, the traveller can be independent of 
hurried scrambles for stale refreshment at crowded railway 
stations, and defy any ordinary accident by which he might 
otherwise be made uncomfortable. It is not an Irish bull, 
but a simple fact, to say that this statement is doubly true 
when he happens to be a woman. 

As for rules of health and conduct, they are few but im- 
perative : light and easily fitting clothing, simple food taken 
regularly, a fair amount of sleep, and an understanding that 
occasional rest must relieve the waste of perpetual motion. 
Considering the total change which takes place, from the 
quiet habits which are supposed to be necessary for well- 
being at home, it is a wonder that more injury does not 
result in the excitement of journeying. To hurry from a 
night of broken sleep in railway coach or steamboat to a 
day of sight-seeing, in which tired eyes grow painfully 
sensitive from the constant reception of new impressions, 
and the tired mind becomes languid and irresponsive under 
the flood of novel experiences, and to continue this inde- 
finitely, is the usual formula. So the zest which should be 
added to imagination is lost, and the exaltation which might 
make life rich, degenerates from pure physical weakness into 



INTRODUCTION. Xlll 

a barren curiosity which endures instead of enjoying. One re- 
turns with a chaos of vague remembrances jostling each other 
in barbaric disorder, instead of a gallery of fair memories 
in which the soul might sit at ease for ever after. 

The ordinary voyager with this little leaven of common 
sense will at least know comfort, and the tempered plea- 
sure he has a right to expect. His will never be the royal 
progress of the true Prince, alert of fancy, quick of eye, 
responsive of spirit, to whom all things offer tribute. But 
the broadening which unconsciously comes to thought, the 
breaking down of prejudice, the building up of character,^ 
and the sense of re-creation, will remain with him as solace 
and recompense. Something of the great lesson which is 
the beginning of a liberal education — the consciousness that 
** there are more things in heaven and earth than were 
dreamed of in his philosophy " — has penetrated his under- 
standing, and can never wholly depart. Henceforth he 
must recognise himself as cousin-german at least, if not 
brother, to the great family of humanity. 

To the real traveller — the royal traveller — one can only 
say God speed. For him the radiant world waits ; and at 
every turn some new sense of delight comes to make life 
'splendid. Day by day he becomes conscious of heights and 
depths in his being which were unknown before, until he 
Beems to be for the first time becoming acquainted with 
himself. In being introduced to this newer and happier 
self, he revels in the sense of largeness and freedom which 
the double identity confers upon him. Here are the dreams 
which have been companions of a lifetime, presenting them- 



XIV INTRODUCTION. 

selves like the faces of beloved friends for recognition ; here 
is the strong mental exaltation that lingers about the shrines 
of earth's victories, to make the soul rich with tender emotion 
as it follows in the path of the immortal brotherhood of 
spirits. Preferences which had before lain dormant, sensa- 
tions of which he had never been conscious, draw him this 
way and that with subtle strength ; and he is like one 
escaping from some denser atmosphere into the purer air 
and far-reaching enchantment of a diviner world. 

That every one who has done her the honour of being 
for a short time her travelling companion may belong to 
this blissful company, is the sincere wish of 

THE AUTHOR. 



THE VOYAGE 



A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUEOPE. 



CHAPTER I. 
THE VOYAGE. 

I WONDER whether there is any room in the world now for 
the journal of an enthusiast. Mrs. Jameson's Diary of an 
Ennuyee might have a success ; it is an age when the imagi- 
nation, like the body, must be clothed in pale and faded tints 
to be in the fashion. How is one going to fare who is out of 
the mode ; who enjoys the high colours and deep reliefs and 
bright contrasts of primitive nature ? Well, we shall see. 

Here is a sea voyage, for instance; that old, old story, 
which has become a nightmare of repetitions and ennui, 
clouded always with the shadow of sea sickness, full of re- 
miniscences of stuffy small state-rooms and intolerable smells. 
How is one to be believed who has to paint this as a week of 
paradise, a succession of balmy days and glorious nights, a 
revelation of harmonies in colour, in tone, in ensemble, like 
Mendelssohn's " Calm Sea and Happy Voyage," or like some 
of those serene motifs of Wagner, which float like dreams of 
heaven through the discordant harmonies of his " Gotter- 
dammerung." How is a truthful soul to attempt the chronicle 
of wrapt and starlit waters, swelling beneath the glory of 
moons which earth never imagined, pulsing into deep, organ 
chords of infinite music, which seem to be translated at last 
into the splendour of the radiant firmament above ! Of long, 



2 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN" EUROPE. 

pencefnl, blessed days, throbbing with light and the vitality 
of fresh winds, bearing one through unknown seas to unknown 
worlds! Of the sensation of belonging to the elements; of 
being born, somehow, kin to ocean, sky, and air, and being 
suddenly introduced into companionship with one's relations! 
And the new thoughts that come knocking at the heart for 
utterance; the unknown depths that seem to open in the 
soul for the reception of these unusual emotions ; the glamour 
of unreality that lifts the commonplace out of life and makes 
existence a strange and novel experience for us. 

To sit on the deck of an outer bound ship, the spirit yet 
throbbing under the unwonted wrench of parting, the eyes 
yet dim with the pressure of recent tears, and to feel the 
sweet ministrations of sea and sky interpose their wholesome 
barrier between the past and the future, is to reach one of 
the highest points in emotional beatitude which it is ever 
granted human nature to attain from inanimate causes. 
The imperceptible, delicious swiftness of motion, the rush of 
wind and waves, the dazzle and sparkle of light, the sense of 
buoyancy and unconscious uplift are too strong for expression, 
but not for feeling. There is an impression of subtle know- 
ledge and strength, of mingled audacity and awe, in thus 
crossing this beaconless and limitless space, and subordinat- 
ing the secrets of nature to man's will. The glory is not ours, 
as it was that of Columbus, to have conceived the thought 
and turned that first weak prow across the vast unfathomed 
ocean ; yet something of the same divine principle spurs us 
on. For us, too, there is waiting beyond the happy shore of 
the new world. For us, too, the dreams and aspirations of 
a lifetime are about to be accomplished. Timorous fears 
may cry halt, heart-longings may hale us backward to the 
safe f.nd quiet homeland we are leaving; but something 
stronger within — whether it be devil or angel — calls onward 
now, and we obey the summons. 



THE VOYAGE. 3 

There is an old Eastern proverb which says, '' It is well 
to be born beautiful ; it is better to be born rich ; it is best 
to be born lucky." Surely for some creatures there is sucli 
a star in the ascendant. This CejjJialonia^ for instance — not 
young and lovely, like some of her younger stately sisters, 
nor endowed with that Atalanta-like swiftness with which 
they win the flying race with time, yet about whom the 
waves move tenderly always, and the sky looks down with 
love. And the happy people aboard her, who leave the 
dreary uncertainty of early April days, full of doubt and 
misgiving, prepared for the climate and the costume of the 
Esquimaux, who find themselves at once in the warmth and 
glow of the fairest midsummer. Of course they have done 
something to deserve reward ; they have chosen the week of 
the full April moon, and looked beyond that fatal beauty 
which is only skin deep in any she that moves, be the same 
boat or woman. But on the whole they have been irrespon- 
sible as babies in their choice. Why, then, should they be 
so especially blessed in it ? Is fortune, like Providence, kind 
to children and fools ? 

"What an epitome of life is this little world speeding across 
the great world of waters. What divisions of classes and 
interests, each having its own sphere — all bound somewhat 
together by the kindly influences of humanity. The govern- 
ing order high up on those dizzy bridges, grave with the 
stern responsibility of active power; the aristocracy of the 
promenade deck, basking in the sunshine of luxury and 
idleness ; the more numerous and democratic horde gathered 
into steerage and intermediate quarters ; the honourable work- 
ing body busy about interests and afiairs of government, and 
down deepest of all the silent, grim labourers who work as 
blindly as the blind machines they tend, but without whom 
the entire organism would fail. " All sorts and conditions 
of men " play their part on this small sphere as in the larger 



4 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

one left behind, with just the same mingling of advantages 
and drawbacks. Sometimes a touch of envy in eyes that 
look up, and a blank of indifference in those that glance 
down ; sometimes a bit of riotous merry-making on the main 
deck to mock the well-bred languor of the saloon above it, 
but as a rule, good, honest, mutual interest one in another. 
How could it be otherwise when such narrow space and 
similar conditions limit the present and future for us ! 

By what miscalculation in the use of words did crossing 
the ocean ever come to be known as monotonous or tiresome ? 
Of all the adjectives that could possibly be misapplied, how 
could the one most unfitted of all have been chosen as de- 
scriptive? Monotonous, to be born out of the serfdom of 
custom and the imperious insistance of conventionalities to 
this wonderful new existence. To be transplanted, like a 
winter-housed flower, from the pale atmosphere within doors 
into the jubilation of the air and sunshine ; to have an in- 
sight into surroundings and emotions of which life has been 
heretofore as ignorant as if the soul had been born blind. 
To wake up some morning like this of yesterday, with the 
smooth surface of the deep gathered into long slopes, white 
crested, and deep valleys, powdered with snow, while the 
ship, with new life buoyant in every airy tangle of rope and 
slender taper of masthead, flies up and down the hills and 
hollows to a rhythm of beautiful motion as wild and free as 
the Eide of the Walkyres. To be enveloped in splendours 
of colour such as seemed to belong only to the glories of 
revelation — amethyst and beryl, sapphire and emerald, 
chrysoprase and ruby, glinting and changing from glory to 
glory under the magic of dawn and of sunset, or the silver 
glamour of the moon. To hear by snatches the wild minor 
interludes of the sailors' chorus, swept across the bright or 
mournful waters ; to catch in the dusk fragments of song or 
story from the picturesque groups on the lower deck, full 



THE VOYAGE. 5 

always of tlie pathetic interest of poverty. Or to lie awake 
o' night, looking through the handsbreadth of a porthole at 
a sea and sky more divine than has ever before been offered 
to human eyes ; and beyond them with that 

" longing, 

That is not akin to pain," 

at the dear faces left behind. Or to descend into the heart of 
the ship, into that Inferno of fire and heat from which pulses 
the force that fills her veins with life and motion, where wild- 
eyed sombre visions, amid a hellish glare of smoke and fiame, 
feed the open, gaping mouths of the blazing pits about them. 
I do not think there is anything in the world so overpowering 
in its poetic suggestiveness as this furnace-room in a trans- 
atlantic steamer. The time, the place, the uncanny and pic- 
turesque circumstances remove it from all other experiences. 
Are eight days, or ten, too much for such experiences? 
Nay, nor three times ten ; if we had not been spoiled first 
by that demon of superficiality, which cannot spare time for 
more than a passing glance at the fairest sight or deepest 
mystery. Unless, indeed, it take on the fashionable form of 
a Browning craze or the mysticism of esoteric Buddhism. 
And then at last, when looking out in the grey dawn of the 
morning in that half glad, half fearful unrest of anticipation 
which comes nearing land, one sees the cyclop eye of that 
benevolent monster, the lighthouse at Fastnet, flashing its 
message of welcome through the silence, what a sudden glow 
of thanksgiving and thrill of triumph, as if we, too, had in 
some way helped to guide the good ship across a three 
thousand mile waste of shifting waters so that she should not 
deviate three hundred yards from that one lone rock. Then 
and then only one becomes aware of the unconscious effort 
which has been underlying the calm satisfaction of this week 
of leisure — the tension against which rising wind or straying 



6 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

cloud or breakiDg wave has been snapping and straining. 
Some weight too shadowy to be called dread, too vague for 
apprehension, slips off the braced shoulders, and a delicious 
lightness and buoyancy succeeds. It must be purchased, 
though, by the preliminary passage money ; no other coin of 
the realm can buy its delightsomeness. 

Then comes the six or eight hours' sail along the Irish 
coast— a softer sweetness in the land air blowing through 
the cordage, a fresher blue in the dazzling waters, a more 
tender glow in the delicate arching sky. Around the grey 
Head of Kinsale a pair of fisher boats, with deep red sails, 
come out to make the morning gladder with their dancing, 
rocking motions ; the low, green hills, and the fair, falling 
slopes between them, smile a welcome ; a cloud of white sea 
gulls is blown like a drift of snowflakes across the shining 
gea — so we say our first good morrow to Ireland. When the 
noisy, fussy little tug comes tumbling like a porpoise to take 
us away from the majestic and now beloved leviathan, there 
is a momentary pang, and then a sudden return of the in- 
spiration of enterprise. Now, indeed, and at last the world 
is before us. With Robert Browning we feel : — 

*• The year's at the spring 
And day's at the morn ; 
Morning's at seven ; 
The hillside's dew pearled, 
The lark's on the wing ; 
The snail's on the thorn ; 
God's in His heaven — 
All's right with the world.'* 

No one who has a drop of Irish blood in his veins, and 
who that is fortunate has not, no matter through how many 
generations of absence it has been filtered, can catch his first 
near glimpse of this beloved land through the gates of Queens- 
town Harbour without a thrill of deep and joyful emotion, 



GOOD MORNING TO IRELAND. 7 

which will remain among his dearest memories for ever^ 
The inheritance which love has bequeathed, the traditions 
of song and story, mingle with the exhilaration of again 
approaching land, and the delight which the great beauty of 
the scene itself sends thrilling through every vein. The 
hitherto unknown loveliness of the soft green upon the hills, 
the vivid masses of golden yellow gorse, shining like decora- 
tions upon the brow of height and headland, the sense of 
perfect quiet after the accustomed rattle of machinery, the 
soft languor of the warm air, the picturesque lines of grey 
houses rising from or nestling amid the green slopes, the 
imposing situation of the fine buildings around which the 
town is grouped, the massive earthworks and embrasures of 
the two outlying forts, and the general air of cheerfulness 
and bright expectancy of the landscape would force the spirit 
of the least imaginative into sympathy. Once ashore, the 
impression only deepens; birds are singing blithely on the 
green boughs; the handsome, straight policeman, with his 
military air and jaunty good-for-nothing cap glued over his 
right ear, is courtesy itself in assisting you through the 
Custom House ordeal ; a couple of rattling, fascinating, jaunt- 
ing cars come up with cheery offer of service. There is an 
air of good-humoured kindliness about every man, woman, 
and child within eye and ear-shot, and you are supremely 
content. 

When, later on, one of these same dashing, tipsy little 
vehicles is whirling you through the country roads about 
Middleton and Cloyne, satisfaction deepens into royal delight. 
Around, above, and below, on field and height and deep 
valley, the wonderful green world lies aglow in the sunshine. 
Hedges of yellow gorse, -liike bars of light, intersect the 
landscape up to the very tips of the rounded hills. The fine, 
soft, close, emerald carpet is smoothed over a soil that one 
might imagine had been moulded by some careful hand into 



8 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

perfect evenness. Nature here has outgrown the season of 
awkwardness and angles ; she is all curves, and roundness 
and grace. She has had time to give to decoration. Not 
a grey stone wall that is not an enchanting arabesque of 
mosses, brown and olden, of swaying vine tendrils, of cling- 
ing ivy. Not a meadow but is enamelled with tiny pink- 
tipped daisies, and starred with homely dandelion ; not a 
hedge that is not sweet with the exquisite bloom of small 
yellow primroses, of pale sprays of blackthorn, of shy purple 
violets hidden under broad clusters of leaves. Such exuber- 
ance of bloom, such chains and wreaths and masses of dainty 
colour, such a revelling in fair unknown forms of leaf and 
blossom, is like exploring a new country. Even the birds' 
voices are different from anything we have remembered. 
The shrill, clear whistle of the thrush, the carol of the lark, 
the warble of linnets, the mellow ripple of finches, the song 
of the blackbird, are unlike the woodland gossip to which we 
are accustomed. It is a new flood of melody, not less, nor 
more sweet, but " as one star differs from another in glory." 
The very forms are unfamiliar; those great, stately crows 
with their cruel beaks already deep in the corn-fields ; those 
graceful, blue-black jackdaws .quarrelling in the middle of a 
shady boreen; the magpie, rolled alternately in snow and 
Boot ; the yellowhammers' golden breasts, the tiny wrens, the 
email bright robins, even the English sparrows. Here is a 
walled garden. Espaliered plum and peach trees are trained 
like vines against the sunny sides, beds of deep flame-coloured 
wallflowers, mellow with fragrance, great clusters of dark 
blue forget-me-nots, masses of primroses and marigolds, tall 
Blender stems of monthly roses and massive clumps of flower- 
ing shrubs, line the paths and fill the senses with a delicious 
confusion of scent and colour. In one corner a row of bee- 
hives stand in a wilderness of thyme and sweet marjoram, 
flowering currant and gooseberry bushes, pyramids of Brussels 



GOOD MORNING TO IRELAND. 9 

sprouts and long rows of trellised peas. Could honey of 
Hymettus be more sweetly flavoured than these dripping 
amber combs, distilled from such riches ? 

The poetry of pastoral life is in the very air we breathe. 
Wordsworth becomes suddenly translated for us, and Cowper 
and Thompson, and Shelley and Tennyson. Here is the muse 
which inspired them ; mild, tender, lovely and loving, in- 
stead of the grand, half shy, half savage creature who wanders 
through the barbaric splendours of American solitudes. 

Eory O'Moore, who is driving, is a true son of the soil. 
He has charged you a shilling too much for the ride, but he 
has decked your particular chariot with his gayest cushions ; 
he stops to cut armfuls of golden gorse and bouquets of cow- 
slips and anemone ; he overflows with good nature, and his 
rosy face is stretched in a constant smile at the rhapsodies 
of the " Mericaners." He wears a solid suit of good grey 
corduroy ; there is a sprig of larch stuck into the band of his 
caubeen, and a bunch of primroses in his buttonhole. "De 
times is on'y middlin' to be sure, but praise God dere's a 
hundherd and dirty tousand to be comin' from de oder side 
dis summer, an' of corse every one dat goes to Paris will be 
comin' to see how Ireland looks, so we'll be doin' somethin*." 
" But what makes you think so many are coming? " " Oh, 
dey tells me so, for gospel trute ; an' look now at yereselves, 
ma'am, comin' so airley in de beginnin' of it all. Sure not 
a doubt of it." And he cracks his whip reassuringly over 
the neck of the gaunt but sturdy horse, who is already flyino- 
down the steep road in a way to put one's heart in one's 
mouth. Care and the future are far enough away now, with 
six good silver shillings in his pocket. Rory isn't one of 
the pessimists. 

The streets of Cork are full of the most alert and business- 
like race that I fancy we will meet in the country. Crowds 
of well dressed, cheery people flow in and out the lurge, 



lO A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

well-filled shops, and saunter through the grounds of Queen's 
College, or the stately shadows of the Dyke walk later. The 
city is beautifully situated in the valley of the river Lee 
and upon the hills on either side. Terraces and crescents of 
pretty houses, each inside its own high-walled garden, over- 
flowing with leafage and climbing plants, and entered by 
gates from the street, remind one of Mrs. Oliphant's Green 
Lane in Carlingford, and add an element of romantic interest 
to the dwellers therein. Shaggy little Welsh or Kerry 
ponies, attached to low phaetons filled with rosy-cheeked 
children, and driven by comfortable, comely matrons, run up 
and down the steep streets as if each were blown by some 
concealed steam power. Such spinning around sharp corners 
and dashing over smooth noiseless pavements was never 
seen before. Everything is new ; bakers' waggons piled high 
with enormous loaves of bread, queer milk carts, carrying 
one towering hogshead-like can, char-a-bancs, shandridans, 
waggonettes, jaunting cars, private equipages, donkey carts, 
all running at breakneck speed, as if the fate of the nation 
depended upon post haste. The people seem bitten by a 
mania for swift motion the moment they touch the reins of 
a horse. Compared with the easy insouciance of the crowds 
on the very narrow side- walks, these dashing charioteers are 
like another people. The shop windows are full of bargains 
that shake the prudent American soul out of all its resolves 
against expenditure. What is a man, or especially a woman, 
to do when Irish mackintoshes can be bought for five or 
seven dollars, and the finest eider down puffs in the world, 
cased in silk or in satin, for fifteen? The consistent he or 
she who prays " Lead us not into temptation " should keep 
clear of Cork. 



IRELAND. 



v^xx^^iER II. 
GLENGARIFF AND KILLARNEY. 

xjji^roxvi:. one has been a day in Ireland, a certain number of 
strangenesses, where all is strange, impress themselves. One 
is the omnipresence of the military element. The peaceful 
stranger, to whom the pomp and circumstance of this phase 
of human nature is unknown, fancies himself in the midst of 
war preparations. Red-coated privates on the side-walks; 
stately officers in dog-carts, on horseback, or afoot ; com- 
panies and squads going through drills in barrack yards ; 
and barracks themselves, of infantry, of cavalry, of artillery, 
of constabulary, everywhere in town and country, up hill and 
down dale. Partly the splendid setting up of military train- 
ing, partly the conscious and acknowledged importance of 
their position, gives these men an air of arrogance, or at least 
of condescension, which produces a sentiment of awful respect 
in the ordinary mortal. One feels as if revolution were in 
the air, and that at the next corner the troops with drums 
beating and colours flying will go marching by to the seat of 
war. But no ! There is no war and no enemy. There is no 
raison d'etre so far as common sense can reach. But common 
sense has so little to do with the government of nations. 

By the time one has rambled about for ten days or a fort- 
night this effect of surprise vanishes. It becomes the most 
natural thing in the world to look for the comfortable police 
headquarters in the prettiest part of every town or village, 
or in the most imposing position in the approach to a city. 

13 



14 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUEOPE. 

One forgets to wonder what they are for, or what possible 
occupation they can find on these quiet green highways and 
byways, so full of peace and restfulness. One forgets even 
to dread the possibilities of misfortune and evil which these 
numbers of able-bodied and idle men, passing their time in 
aimless manoeuvres under enforced regulations, may represent 
to the communities upon which they are imposed. When, 
now and again, one to the manner born attempts an explana- 
tion, it seems easier to remain within the safe shield of what 
the Catholic Church calls " impenetrable ignorance." What ! 
a Government constantly holding its place over its people by 
force ! Not a sudden uprising in gusty passion over some 
real or fancied injustice, but a constant, undying, desperate 
protest against authority ! This authority imposed upon 
instead of appointed by them ! As poor Stephen says in 
'•Hard Times," " It's aw' a muddle." Let us leave it so. 

Almost as perplexing is the endeavour to grasp the idea 
that the whole visible earth is the personal property of this 
or that individual. It does not belong to the peasant who 
makes his little field teem with plenty ; nor to the farmer 
whose broad lands stretch in pasture and wheat land and 
garden up the beautiful slopes ; nor even always to the gentle- 
man whose smiling villa fits upon its sunny height, or into 
its shady glen, as if it were part of the natural order. It 
is the domain of some man or woman, who lives upon the 
revenue of its bounty in other lands, who never sees or knows 
it, except for a few weeks of shooting or fishing in the season, 
and to whom it means only so much rent in pocket. Now 
and again in the most lovely portions of the scenery a high 
stone wall cuts off the view of lake or mountain for miles, and 
one moves as if in a city street, able to look only above and 
before one. The owner who shuts you out from your share 
of the glory of the world in this way, is not even enjoying it 
himself. He is the absentee in London or Paris, and " he 



GLENGARIFF AND KILLARNEY. 1 5 

does what he likes with his own." His is the moimtain 
yonder with its head lost in the clouds ; his the lake reflecting 
the smile of heaven ; his the river flowing through its tranquil 
meadows. You climb the height or sail the waters, you fish 
in the stream or hunt in the covert, only by his permission. 
No wonder that in time he becomes such a representative of 
the power of the Almighty to the crowd of lesser folk who 
hang upon his will. If only noblesse ohlige should be always his 
motto ! If partaking some of His attributes, he would also 
share His mercy and loving-kindness. But the miserable 
cabins of the people answer that ! 

Still another peculiarity — to the American — is the stamp 
which royalty leaves upon whatever it touches. The Prince 
of Wales, when a youth of seventeen, travelled with his tutor 
over the beautiful Glengariff country between Bantry and 
Killarney. Tens of thousands of more illustrious and splen- 
didly endowed men have traversed it since, people whose 
names and fortunes have been more closely linked with the 
glory of the land than any accident of birth or position could 
rivet them, yet loyalty has called it the Prince of Wales 
route from that day to this, and no doubt will continue to 
do so. That simple little lodge has been sacred among all 
its richer and braver brethren because once the Queen lunched 
under its roof; another point is hallowed in that some Royal 
Highness professed himself pleased with the outlook. Com- 
pared with such prestige as this, Buskin could confer no 
patent of nobility on height or depth. King of the mountains 
though he be, the material sovereignty of the rulers of the 
land is higher and prouder than his in the minds of the 
people. But we must leave this pregnant theme for a look at 
happier things. 

The journey from Bantry to Glengariff, and thence on to 
Killarney, allowing a few days for rest and enjoyment in the 
middle passage, is as exquisite an experience as the heart of 



1 6 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

man could desire. Taken in one of the liigb, strong mountain 
coaches, open all around, and well provided with rugs even in 
summer, it is a dream of beauty. But the halcyon time ia 
in early May. The season matches our early June weather. 
There is that look of new creation about the world ; that 
infinite tenderness and delicacy in the young frail boughs, 
the springing grass, the glad field flowers, the singing bird 
voices. But what boughs and grass and flowers! What 
tints and blooms unknown to us before ; what garlanding of 
ivy ; what wonders in hedge and roadside. The beautiful 
quaint grey houses, with their bright unshuttered windows, 
are close covered with clinging leaves from foundation to 
gable ; the plantations of young larches are tremulous, like 
a shower of translucent emerald light ; the gorse-covered 
cliffs shine like solid gold in the sunshine ; the cultivated 
fields creep to the tip of the hill slopes in an arabesque of 
gracious greens and warm greys. Here a tumbling stream 
turns the shining black wheel of an old mill ; there the ivy- 
robed tower of some ancient ruin gladdens the valley ; Gray's 
country churchyard lies amid its black yews and mossy graves 
under the shadow of its village spire ; Goldsmith's Sweet 
Auburn waits you at the turn of yonder road where the 
grassy stile leads across the meadows to the hamlet beyond. 
And now the cliffs rise and the seaward mountains; the salt 
breath of the waves mingles with the scent of violet and 
primrose; the clouds come scurrying down from the west, 
and a pelting shower rattles about your ears, to be up and 
off" again the next moment. The sun is out anew with an 
added dazzle and lustre for its momentary eclipse ; the birds 
rush into a more riotous tangle of melody ; the flowers actually 
laugh in the hedges ; a fresh set of pictures roll past in the 
panorama of light and loveliness ; the dim, blue, far away 
mountains begin to show on the horizon, and it is time for 
another shower. No one minds it. A sane person is never 



GLENGARIFF AND KILLARNEY. 17 

unprovided with a waterproof and umbrella ; there is no sting 
in the air to make a wetting uncomfortable ; it is all generous, 
kindly, hospitable, and fascinating, like the people to whom 
it belongs. 

. GlengarifF itself is a gem. Skirting the edge of the deep 
/bay, surrounded by bold headlands and craggy mountain 
peaks, it nestles amid its fields, removed from the turmoil of 
the outside world as if it never belonged to it. Down on the 
shore, sheltered by an abrupt hillside behind, Eccles Hotel 
waits for the traveller. It is the dearest and quaintest little 
inn. A long, low house, with two irregular higher wings at 
the sides, and other larger additions in the background, 
covered to the eaves with a climbing mass of vines and roses 
hnd clematis and blue lupin, banked with clusters and beds 
of every dainty flower, it is so completely hid in its veil of 
green and wreaths of blossoms that one has to guess at the 
original colour beneath. It is the most tempting hostelry. 
On the steps of the low, wide hall door the landlady meets 
you with ready welcome, a sturdy mountain lad shoulders 
your luggage, d neatly capped and aproned maid takes the 
number of your zoom from the kindly woman clerk and ushers 
you upstairs ; there are flowers on your table, and a chintz 
valance to the neai little bed. You are quite at home. A 
tidy woman comes to know what you would like for dinner, 
and to suggest some tit-bit for which the house is famous. 
You are led downstairs again to be introduced to the drawing- 
room, full of flowers and small tables, and easy chairs, and 
the universal antimacassar, with deep windows looking out 
through clustering vines at the lake. You are shown through 
one long, mysterious passage to the library, low and bright, 
and so quiet — a dusky little nest for lounging and reading; 
back again and through another winding way to the dining- 
room, with its four bay windows opening into the flower 
garden, apd garlanded in green ; its little and big tables gay 

B 



1 8 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUEOPE. 

with great pots of Cineraria in luxuriant bloom ; its sideboards 
dainty with precious bits of Sevres and Doulton, and bright 
with old silver ; its walls completely covered with old pictures, 
family portraits, copies of celebrated canvases and originals, 
some valuable, some dreadful. The house is full of angles 
and corners ; passages upstairs and passages down, unfore- 
seen niches and cupboards, and a collection of bric-a-brac 
that would fill a museum. The hot and cold joints are 
brought in whole for breakfast, and carved to your taste on a 
side table ; the matron pours your cup of only passable coffee, 
but delicious tea, from the urn ; the great loaf of bread is given 
into your own hands to cut. Little pats of creamy butter 
— was or will there be ever again such in the world as this 
of Cork — are at your plate ; a slice of broiled plaice fresh from 
the bay, a rasher of bacon, a fresh egg or a salmon steak. 
This is the whole, but it is so good, so homelike, that it never 
occurs to one to require greater variety any more than if it 
were your friend's table. It is your friend's table — or your 
own. The element of personal interest and kindliness is so 
strong in the service offered, that you feel yourself part of a 
family, not portion of a crowd. There is not the machine-like 
perfection of the Windsor or the Palmer House, where any- 
thing within the compass of the earth can be laid at your feet 
by touching an electric knob inside your door, but there is 
something more human, more pleasing. 

Outside the porch a hedge of fuchsias, three feet high and 
quite three feet wide, divides the house front from the narrow 
country road ; the blue sea breaks among the rocks just across 
it ; little boats with gay burdens of pleasure-seekers float in 
and out among the sunny islands. The small, clean windows 
look out from a compact mass of flowers and foliage, bright 
with every known tint ; wallflowers and primroses make the 
sweet air sweeter ; gravelled paths wind here and there up the 
hillside, through wildernesses of bloom and fragrance, laurus- 



GLENGARIFF AND KILLARNEY. 19 

tinas and rhododendron, clumps of laburnums and sombre yew 
shadows. Thatched summer houses and rustic seats are in 
every nook, each with its especial ravishment of view, and 
the air is absolutely tipsy with melody. The Irish birds are 
like its people, bubbling over with song and laughter. And 
over and above all is an air of peace, of content, of satisfied 
remoteness from care and bustle that was never felt before. 
Yet in this same precious inn there are lapses that would 
make a Western hotelkeeper's hair stand on end. There is 
lack in the little bedrooms, of many conveniences and most 
luxuries. The housemaid sweeps her halls and stairs at nine 
o'clock in the morning with a fine free motion, driving clouds 
of dust into the guests* faces without a word of apology. 
Your bath is a pail of warm water in a tin tub ; you go to 
bed with a candle ; the men and maids chatter and laugh 
outside your door frankly, boisterously — if you desire to 
sleep, so much the worse for you. 

Such happy days as one spends here threading the wood- 
paths, exploring the gorse-covered glens, rambling through 
the mazes of Lord Bantry's hunting ground, with its pictu- 
resque thatched shooting lodge, visiting the ruins of Crom- 
well's bridge, climbing the battlements of the Martello, on 
one of the outlying islands. This is one remnant of a bit of 
folly perpetrated by some rattle-brained patriot at the time 
when the first Napoleon hovered like a war cloud over the 
sky of Europe. A number of these massive structures were 
erected on different exposed points along shore to prevent 
any sudden invasion by the French troops. They would have 
been about as much obstacle to Bonaparte's plans as a five- 
barred gate to an athlete ; but the erratic genius who planned 
them deserves the thanks of posterity for the beauty they 
add to the sea line here and there. We found ours with a 
barefooted urchin as warder, who threw open the postern 
gate for a silver shilling ; and garrisoned by a tiny black 



20 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EURuPE. 

kid, who came scampering down the broken wall to butt at 
the approaching enemy. 

The drive of forty miles from Glengariff to Killarney is 
exceedingly beautiful. One is not prepared for the boldness 
and great wildness of the mountain passes, or for the scowl- 
ing majesty of the mountains themselves, rising in black 
drifted billows of rock 3000 feet against the sky, frowning 
under the sudden eddies of shadow, which even on the fairest 
day sweep about their gorges and precipices. The loveliest 
network of cultivated fields creeps everywhere like a soft 
rug to the very foot of the mountain across the wide sunny 
valleys ; the grey stone cabins, with their thatched roofs, fit 
into clefts of the rock, and their sylvan following of a cow, 
a goat or two, half a dozen sheep, and a shaggy donkey, 
browse in the sheltered bits of pasture. It is the most per- 
fect blending of pastoral gentleness and savage nature ; one 
intensifies the force of the other. There is a noticeable 
absence of trees, except in the more immediate vicinity of 
some proprietor's residence, through all this south-western 
portion of Ireland. Here and there a plantation of young 
larches on a hillside or on a portion of a reclaimed bog lends 
a dainty touch of colour to the fierce grey black of the back- 
ground ; the parks of the large domains have some magnifi- 
cent specimens of oak, pine, fir, or beech, singly and in groups, 
with here and there stately avenues leading to fine groves ; 
but the country as a whole is bare except for the always 
beautiful and luxuriant shrubbery. One is scarcely conscious 
of any want, surrounded by this exquisite richness of emerald 
grass, these ever wonderful hedges of privet, of fuchsias, of 
hawthorn, of shining ivy; that luxuriance of bloom and 
verdure enamelling every spot upon which the eye rests. 
No wild flower can compare for daintiness with this pale 
and fragrant primrose, which is almost as omnipresent 
in spring as the sod from which it rises; and the pink- 



KILLAHNEY. 2 1 

tipped star of the lovely wee daisy presses it close. The 
cowslip is exquisite too, and the violet — all changed into 
forms rarer and fairer than we across the water have 
known them. 

Killarney, unlike Glengariff, does not take one by storm 
with its beauty. So many traditicns of the charm of this 
place belong to memory that it takes some time to adjust 
one's impressions. But it creeps quickly into the heart, and 
finds there the niche prepared for it. Like the district through 
which one passes to reach it, there is a fascinating combina- 
tion of majesty and loveliness. The bright waters and ver- 
dant islands look smiling up from the shadow of dark storm- 
ribbed hills, stern in purple splendour of deep colour, lifting 
their bare brows to the changeful heavens, with an aspect of 
solemnity and savage power one could not expect from their 
height. The entire country side is full of the most enchant- 
ing walks and drives. The lovely ruin of Muckross Abbey, 
with the monks' cloister still in wonderful preservation, and a 
Fuperb yew tree, seven hundred and fifty years old, growing 
in the centre of the arched quadrangle, is one of the most 
impressive. A week can be passed with great delight among 
new objects of interest each day. Here as everywhere else 
each spot is memorable because at some one time " the Queen 
tuk the water here, my lady," or "the Prince looked at the 
view from this very windy," or " Her Majesty herself dumb 
up this path, ma'am, an' planted this oak wid her own hand. 
So it's called the ro'il oak to this day." And it is this 
country and this people, loyal even to a name and a memory, 
faithful to some forlorn thought of devotion, that Her Majesty 
looks upon with such supreme distrust and scant courtesy. 

When you go to Killarney let us hope you will stop at the 
Lake Hotel; that there wili be a good fire in the drawing- 
room, fresh salmon and lake trout "that were swimmin' 
there before your eyes this morning, madam," on the break- 



2 2 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

fast table, and that fine old butler, witli the air of an earl, 
behind your chair to serve them. Let us hope, too, that there 
will be only enough cloud in the sky to cast the proper 
shadows on gloomy Tore and lonely Mangerton ; that the 
lovely island of Innisfail may glow in the soft sunshine ; the 
pale blue range of the Dingle mountains fade away like 
clouds in the southern sky ; and that there may be a pair of 
Irish sportsmen to the fore, with mighty calves and brawny 
arms — brave Nimrods and great trencher men. Above all, 
let us trust that you may grow accustomed to my Lord 
Ktnmare and my gentleman Herbert asking a fee before they 
allow you to look upon park or pleasure ground, river or 
waterfall, mountain or valley. Is it not all theirs, to do what 
they please with ; and in a country where the beggar stretches 
his poor hand for a penny, why may not the gentle be allowed 
to stretch his itching palm for the shilling ? It will be a blow 
to your republican prejudices. But by this time you have 
received enough delight from this lovely and kindly land to 
bear a few slaps. Besides, it is not the real Ireland that 
gives them. 



CHAPTER III 
DUBLIN AND ITS SUBURBS. 

Coming to Dublin after London is like reaching a centre ol 
kindly sympathies, where abstract intelligence is more modi- 
fied by human warmth, and the atmosphere is at once less 
brilliant and less mean than above its step-sister capital. 
The sanguine Celtic temperament robs even poverty of the 
oppressive ugliness which makes its rags and tatters so in- 
expressibly repulsive in England ; and although the misery 
may be just as extreme, it is less hideous. The vital interest 
of the people in the absorbing political interests of the hour 
gives an alertness and vigour to the physical as well as mental 
aspect which reminds one more of American processes. The 
city itself is a wholesome-looking, well-built city, with one 
really splendid and many fine thoroughfares, and with a 
series of really attractive suburbs filled with the homes 
of its prosperous business men. These pretty houses, each 
in its own bit of garden, with low grey walls and fanciful 
clumps of shrubbery shutting them from the eyes of the 
passer-by, hidden like nests among their vines and trellises, 
have an individuality one would not think possible with such 
uniformity of construction. They are mostly of two stories, 
the first being developed as a sort of basement, and the second 
carrying the visitor up a long flight of steps to the hall door. 
Each has its own attractive name on the post of the garden 
gate, telling the passer-by that this is Rose Cottage, and that 

Shanley Villa, and the other Wellington House. Tramways, 

23 



24 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

as they call our horse cars, with seats on the roof as well as 
inside, pass in every direction; and the charge of a penny 
seems ridiculously low. There are numberless handsome 
squares, some kept in order by the town, some owned by the 
abutters, who use them as playgrounds for the children or 
tennis courts for the elders. The kindly climate lends itself to 
their adorning, and the most wonderful lawns cover them to 
the hedges of hawthorn. The habit of building directly upon 
the ground, without the interposition of any proper founda- 
tion or cellar, cannot add either to health or comfort in such 
a wet climate, but the rich counteract the effect by fires in 
all the different rooms after a very cheery and comfortable 
fashion, while the poor accept the rheumatism and low fevers 
engendered as coming from the hand of God and a discipline 
not to be questioned. There are more crimes committed by 
human ignorance in His name than even in that of Liberty. 

The courtesy of the shop-people, even in a more marked 
degree than France and England, is in striking contrast to 
the ill-bred rudeness of our home product. It is a pleasure 
to buy from these courteous and attentive salesmen, and one 
hungers for the time when such a system shall have been 
imported with Irish frieze topcoats and Pirns' poplins. The 
firm that first adopts it is predestined to success. The 
vulgarity of the tradespeople in most American stores is 
positively offensive, and to one who has ever tasted the 
comfort of the Old World regime its very remembrance is 
intolerable. 

The wonderful neatness of the butchers' shops is another 
national characteristic ; and the dainty way in which joints, 
cuts, and poultry are sent home certainly lends zest to 
appetite. The greengrocers' stands, as they call provision 
dealers, are bright with masses of flowers interspersed among 
the vegetables, and the effect is wholly pleasing. Some of 
the favourite combinations, such as chicken and bacon, or 



DUBLIN AND ITS SUBURBS. 25 

pork and greens, remind one of the South ; the flavours of 
all the varieties are more rich and delicious than onr own, 
especially that of the cauliflower. Prices of every kind are 
much lower than those to which we have been accustomed. 
In clothes for men and boys, cloth garments and personal 
furnishings generally, it would seem as if a large family 
might be brought to Dublin, fitted with all the necessaries 
for a year's outfit, and taken back to America for less than 
the mere cost of the articles at home. It is quite impossible 
to resist the fever of purchasing. One buys, and buys, and 
buys. 

And meantime one goes rambling about down the fine 
expanse of Sackville Street, with Nelson's Pillar and its 
attendant groups of statuary as landmarks, among them that 
celebrated bronze figure of the nation's poet, of which some 
local wag once wrote in relation to its black colour — 



/; 



" 'Tis not Tom Moore, but the Moor of Venice." 

One wanders into the historic old House of Parliament, 
now degraded to the uses of the Bank of Ireland, with the 
fine tapestries of its House of Lords and the magnificent 
proportions of its House of Commons. One feels in antici- 
pation the thrill of triumph with which the people will 
welcome ''their own again" to the scene of their former 
glory, and recognises the intensity with which that day is 
anticipated by the patient but determined race which has 
never given up its claim to the right of self-government. 
When the fashion in which the Irish have been withheld 
from the exercise of free will is recognised by the traveller, 
when he comes everywhere upon evidences of the repression 
and distrust which have been their portion for generations, 
many things become plain to him which before were obscure. 
Bolts and bars upon every gate to keep out or hold in ; wails 
about every morsel of property as if there were no moral 



26 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

force beyond to prevent depredation or ensure security ; bar- 
racks of constabulary stationed at the entrance of every 
town sufficiently flourishing to be raised above the appear- 
ance of mediocrity, and an attitude of suspicion maintained 
toward every expression of feeling — how can any other result 
than that of reprisal, or any state of feeling than that of 
aggravation, be engendered ? It is but human to repay in- 
justice of sentiment with depravity of conduct ; and it is 
to the everlasting credit of the nation that it has held its 
natural passion so well in check, as its record for the past 
years can show. What it will be when the era of approach- 
ing goodwill dawns upon its fortunes, and the sweet, strong 
light of justice smiles upon its ardent and grateful nature, it 
is pleasure to think upon. 

The reverence with which the people cling to old customs 
and servants is shown in the bank-note printing of this same 
institution, where an ancient and groaning engine, with a 
fly wheel large enough to turn a factory upside down, and 
only strong enough to move one or two presses, is still 
retained in its former service. It is kindly remembrance and 
not economy which leaves it in its place, from which we 
would have sold it for old iron forty years ago. The same 
tenderness for old memories is shown in Trinity College, 
where every eccentricity of the early foundation is still ob- 
served. It is a fine old place, with its portraits of bewigged 
and powdered worthies from Queen Elizabeth down, its 
treasures of rare old books and manuscripts, its beautiful quad- 
rangle and magnificent library. Looking at the wonderful 
hand-wrought manuscripts, enriched with illuminations still 
brilliant with colour, and so artistically perfect that it re- 
sembles the daintiest copperplate in the shape and exactness of 
its lettering, one begins to realise more strongly than ever 
before that this is indeed the Old World. A volume handed 
down from the seventh or eighth century ! Pages touched 



DUBLIN AND ITS SUBURBS. 27 

lovingly and longingly by hands that have been dust and 
ashes for a thousand years ! And we who look upon them, 
exponents of a land and a civilisation unknown for more than 
seven hundred years after they had passed for ever ! What 
slender and frail figures we are, immature children of the 
dawn, compared with that robust and vigorous existence. 
The strange old hall used as Commons, where the bois- 
terous collegians assemble daily for dinner, looks as if it too 
had descended from the Middle Ages. Such dingy, battered 
tables; such well-used greasy benches; such an undescrib- 
able smell of stale puddings and cold roast beef; one does not 
know whether the odour of sanctity or of victuals is strongest. 
The chapel is very fine, with beautiful stalls of carved oak for 
the Dean and Faculty, a very ornate organ, and queer read- 
ing desks and chairs for the choir leaders. The whole college 
has a dim mysterious air, half age, half mustiness, which is 
worth its weight in gold for any one with a proper bump of 
veneration. 

Between the showers some fine day — for it is always 
vibrating between rain and sunshine — there are lovely spots 
to be seen outside the city limits, among the delectable 
mountains of Bray, or the fair hill of Howth. If you can 
choose your time, the walks and drives about Killiney and 
Bray will deservedly live in memory. Take a day more than 
usually turbulent and spasmodic; have a flat, low light re- 
flected under a grey cloud hanging over the water which 
breaks along the wide esplanade on the strand ; see the cosy 
little town with Lord Meath's model cottages and cottagers 
in the same chiaro-oscuro which brings out the soft colours 
of the landscape to perfection ; let a whirling storm of wind 
and rain seize you on the ascent to Bray Head, driving grey 
sheets of fog from the tossing Atlantic over its black ledges 
and dun furze bushes, and howling with a noise like thunder 
around the foam-showered rocks at the base. Then turn a 



2 8 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

sharp corner, and order tlie sunshine to fall upon the fair 
valley of the Dargle, with its sweet peaceful fields, with its 
background of blue Wicklow Mountains, and its enchanted 
castle lying amid bright lawns and parks just below; so ex- 
quisitely set in picturesque remoteness that it recalls all 
the ballads of old romance while still leaving you wedded to 
reality. After that it may hail or snow, smile or rage, as it 
pleases. Your picture has been set in its niche in the gallery 
of memory, and there it will remain to enrich you. But if 
it should be rain, and it probably will, call at one of the 
small confectioners in the town; have a cup of hot coffee 
and a couple of well-buttered toasted crumpets; draw your 
small table up to the fireside with your feet on the fender 
in the atom of a back parlour; have a couple of stout cheery 
friends on the opposite side of the hearth — and you need not 
call the king your uncle. For that day at least you are 
above any happenings of fate. 

Throughout the land both in town and country there are 
the strangest reminiscences of Mexico. No place could be 
more thoroughly unlike in its main characteristics, covered 
as it is with such witchery of green, and showing everywhere 
such evidences of cultivation. Mexico is a grey desert, with 
here and there an oasis of verdure ; Ireland is a necklace of 
emerald, with scarce a vestige of the setting. But here as 
there the small shaggy donkeys trot about the narrow roads 
with their heavy creels of strange merchandise, mountains 
of turf instead of fagots, rising above their patient ears; the 
winding lanes pass between high grey or white walls, with 
no break beyond an occasional garden gate ; and the small, 
low, one-story houses, almost blank except for the tiniest 
windows and a boarded door, turn their prettiest face inward 
to the little back gardens. Above all, and saddest of all, it 
too is cursed with the shadow of the absentee landlord, com- 
ing for ever between it and the sun of prosperity, with tlie 



DUBLIN AND ITS SUBURBS. 29 

interposition of the resident agent between principals and 
dependants. Something of the forlornness which always 
made itself felt even amid the wonderful beauty of that 
radiant southern land is here too. And something in the 
pathetic eyes of the poor and the children, though these 
are Irish blue instead of the mellow Spanish darkness ; and 
the cheeks of tawny olive there, glow rosy red under this 
softer sun. It gives an odd sensation of unreality to note 
such likenesses amid such differences, like a transmigration 
of souls, for here too is the sad mystery of oppression. 

It would be hard to find any city more active in charity and 
the interest of its citizens in every form of progressive reform. 
Of hospitals alone there are twenty-eight, besides many public 
dispensaries, and in only one, the Adelaide, is there any sec- 
tarian bias. Different forms of associated benevolent and 
educational works are conducted with great earnestness and 
unflagging devotion. Nor is it less zealous in the mental 
activity which flowers into written and spoken speech in its 
multitude of literary, scientific, and political clubs. In one 
of these, gathered informally to meet Mrs. Humphrey Ward, 
I heard one night as keen and brilliant a discussion upon the 
relations between Christianity and morals as it has ever been 
my lot to listen to. In choice of language, force of argument, 
keenness of analysis and fluency of English speech, it leads 
my memory of artistic evenings. The number of students, 
thinkers, and workers one meets in society forms a splendid 
proportion of the numerical population, and cannot fail to 
colour one's remembrance. Socially the atmosphere is most 
delightful, with a generous warmth that brightens all its 
best qualities. 

Midway across the country from Dublin to Killarney, on 
the line of the Great Southern and Western Eailway, one 
passes through what used to be known as the Golden Valley, 
from the richness of its wheat lands, but which, though still 



so A SDMMER HOLIDAY IN EUEOPE. 

largely cultivated, has lost mncli of its renown in this regard. 
One passes also what might be called the coal mines of 
Ireland — enormous peat fields, or bogs, black, covered thickly 
with furze, and pitted everywhere with water. The dried fuel 
gives an intense but short-lived heat, and is very largely used 
by the country people. Although it belongs to the wildest 
portions of the land, the right to cut it must still be purchased 
by peasants and farmers desiring to avail themselves of the 
privilege. This principle, that nothing belongs to the people ; 
that they cannot ride or ramble, fish or shoot, sow or reap, 
except by lease or license of some higher authority, is a 
difficult lesson for a stranger to learn. What must it be for 
those w^ho are obliged to know it by heart ? Never abso- 
lutely to own the little house which shelters one and is 
endeared by home association ; to plant one's trees, tend one's 
flowers, expend one's labour on improvements which by-and- 
by, in one year, in ten, in fifty, in a hundred, will revert 
from your posterity to that of your landlord, — how does this 
leave heart for hope or perseverance? Other causes may, 
many others absolutely do, complicate the solution of public 
questions in Ireland, but this is at the head and root of the 
offending. There is something in the essence of human 
nature which rebels against regular industry in such a case. 
Laws have been passed within the past few years, oblig- 
ing the owner of property to take into consideration the 
improvements of his tenant ; but up to that time even a coat 
of whitewash on a cabin wall was sufficient cause for an in- 
crease of rent. There will need to be a higher law still of 
natural justice for the poor man before the problem demon- 
strates itsel£ 



FRANCE. 



CHAPTER IV. 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF PARIS. 

As certainly as the Irish and English landscapes suggest 
the characters of the people to whom they belong, does the 
country portion of France reflect the traits of the race that 
occupies it. There is more irregularity, more individuality, 
as if each small field belonged to the person who tilled it, 
instead of being only a portion of some larger plan. There 
is no such appearance of wealth and state collected about 
a few great houses ; and the cottages of the peasantry are 
almost invariably gathered into close groups, as if a stronger 
tie of interest and kindliness bound the occupants to each 
other. The trees are not so beautiful, but they are more 
diverse. There is more colour dashed in here and there. 
Red-tiled roofs, mellowed into warmer and deeper tints by 
time and creeping verdure, shine among the stiff Normandy 
poplars or the softer foliage of the orchards ; and each hold- 
ing, however small, seems to embrace within its limits all 
the different necessaries for the comfort of the household. 
One is planted wholly with corn, and another with beans, 
and a third with potatoes ; each is a separate little market- 
garden, neat and trim, with flowers sprinkled among the 
vegetable-beds, and every inch of room made useful. 

Over and over again one passes just such quiet churches, 
with the village churchyard nestled about it, and the Curb's 
house in its walled garden close by, as make the story of 
the Abbe Constantin delightful. Men in blouses, women 

33 C 



34 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 



in blue aprons, with heavy thick shoes tliat are a weiglit 
to carry, tramp through fields and lanes, digging, weeding, 
planting, seldom — it is very seldom — resting. But this is 
not new. The English and Irish fields had this point in 
common with them. After all, I think the hardship of 
this outdoor work for women is more in fancy than reality. 
It must be taken into consideration that there is very little 
household care to occupy the time or sap the strength of 
these wives and daughters of the peasantry. There is, like- 
wise, no sense of degradation or unusual poverty attaching 
to it; the women-folk of the farmer, as well as those of his 
labourer, take part. It is a question whether those so engaged 
are not healthier and happier than many of our own well- 
lo-do farm- women, whose overworked lives are passed inside 
the house, with its always darkened windows, away from 
fresh air and sunshine, and with a thousand petty details, 
required by custom rather than common-sense, to keep them 
for ever in arrears. It is not the work absolutely required 
by her circumstances which breaks the heart and health of 
so many American women in the country districts, but the 
exigencies of dress for herself and her children, the plenish- 
ing of her nnhealthfuUy profuse table and storeroom, the 
conforming her days to the customs of those about her. 
In those cases there is almost as strong an obligation of 
caste with us as among the Hindoos. This strain upon 
nerves and time the French peasant wholly avoids. A 
woollen dress and stout jean apron ; a cap for Sunday 
and fete, and no head-gear at all for the rest of the week ; 
an equally limited and serviceable wardrobe for husband 
and children — there is nothing in this to break down from 
worry. And the brown bread, the salad of any green 
thing that grows, the fot-au-feu, with its savoury stew, the 
milk and butter from the only cow, the fresh eggs and 
vegetables, — still, there is nought to weigh heavily upon time 



FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF PARIS. 35 

or engross attention too severely. It is primitive, of course ; 
but primitive things have their uses and conveniences, as well 
as complex. In view of the ever-increasing mountain of 
mental troubles which threaten the health and happiness 
of our own country with its avalanches, it might be well to 
study some other methods of life. These people, if poor, 
are yet wholesome, happy, and contented. If higher civili- 
sation, with all its delights and compensations, is going to 
deny us these gifts of the gods, we should try some other 
experiments. 

In the whole wide world can there be anything like the 
dazzle and glamour of Paris, for the stranger who comes for 
the first time within its gates ? Afterward there may be 
greater understanding of the charm, deeper insight into the 
springs whence this enchantment of soul and sense flows ; 
but can anything ever equal the delicious intoxication which 
seizes one standing for the first time in the centre of this 
whirl of life and gaiety ? Before one knows the meaning 
of these wonders which gladden the vision ; before one re- 
members the historic glories which have lent a soul to the 
inanimate splendour which surrounds him ; while the brain 
is still dizzy from the changeful, brilliant tumult, and the 
eyes yet blinded by the unaccustomed airiness and bright- 
ness ! Take the Place de la Concorde on a summer mornincr, 
with that wonderful avenue of the Champs Elys^es stretching 
on to the Arc de Triomphe. The early clouds have floated 
away from the laughing sky ; the broad leaves of the chestnut 
trees are swaying in the warm sunshine ; a mob of carriages, 
airy, light, reflecting the sun's rays from polished surfaces 
with every turn of the wheel, skims over the smooth pave- 
ment of the great central space. Cavalcades of splendidly 
mounted equestrians dash up and down the roadways 
prepared for them under arching greenery ; a world of bril- 
liantly dressed people fill the four side-walks, each wider 



36 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUKOPE. 

than most of our streets, witli rapid, flashing motion. Over 
the vast playground little children are sitting, running, 
walking; fountains fling glistening spray of silver waters 
high in air ; flowers are blooming in great beds of fragrance 
and beauty ; a company of red- trousered infantry, with a 
military band in front, come marching down the central 
distance. Compared with the broad-shouldered giants 
across the Channel, they look like toy-soldiers. One is 
forced to remember the tremendous record they have left 
written in blood on the battlefields of Europe before being 
able to associate them with any idea of force. As it is, 
they harmonise better with the glad and stirring scene 
of which they make part. What has thought of strife or 
death to do with this gay fantasia of life and colour ? 
Breasting this tremendous outpouring of sound, brilliancy, 
and motion, the strong silence of the beautiful groups of 
statuary placed about the great square has an artistic value 
it could never reach elsewhere. The mourning wreaths and 
crosses surrounding the memorial from Alsace and Lorraine, 
constantly renewed by loyal hands, lend a touch of purely 
French sentiment to one of the details of the picture. The 
great Egyptian monolith in the centre adds its dash of 
Oriental expression to the spectacle ; under its shadow, at 
any hour one chooses, there pass burnoosed Arabs, turbaned 
Moslems, representatives of every race and powder on the 
face of the globe, until one ceases to be surprised at anything 
that happens. At one side, under the light arches of the 
bridges, dart long slight boats, crowded with passengers, like 
glistening water-flies shooting over the clear shining waters. 
At another, the fine Greek facade of the Madeleine ennobles 
the vista which it completes with its solemn beauty ; the 
gardens of the Tuileries hide with their loveliness the scars 
beyond them left by torch and axe of the Commune on 
that memorable May day eighteen years ago. But why 



FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF PARIS. 2)1 

bring image of destruction into this atmosphere ? Neither it, 
nor death, nor sorrow, nor pain, has any place in this glad en- 
semUe. The scene is for the comedy of life, not its tragedy. 

Then — still before the newness wears away, and that 
happy sense of irresponsibility which takes what presents 
itself without any after-thought of what it meant in the 
past or presages for the future — turn in any direction, 
and let the essence of the place mount like some subtle 
elixir into your brain, and set the pulses beating. See 
the long, wide, lovely streets, almost as clean as those of 
Mexico, stretch far into the distance, lined with stately 
rows of palaces, set in gardens, which glow and brighten 
behind their wrought-iron railings. Down the centre always 
the constant stream of carriages, with the quiet liveries of 
the very rich, the more gorgeous outfit of the hourgeois 
gentilhomme, the shining hat and scarlet waistcoat of tlie 
professional coachman. One begins to understand a phrase 
of which French writers make constant use in describing 
an attractive house. These are all " maisons coquettes." 
There is coquetry in the long windows, lace-veiled, opening 
like doors upon the pretty iron balconies ; coquetry in 
these dainty footholds for lounging and observation, carried 
through every story, filled with flowers and plants, shaded 
here and there by fanciful awnings ; coquetry in the glimpses 
of inner courts caught through wide arches leading from 
the side-walk, and bright with shrubbery and fountains. 
Each turns an animated face to the street, greeting the out- 
side world with a smile, but it reserves a special glance for 
its intimates. It is as near the human attribute as inani- 
mate nature can ever come. 

Or turn toward the business quarter. Note the glittering 
windows of the small shops — for, with a few exceptions, 
they are all small, unlike our caravansaries. The Maison 
Aristide-Boucicaut, as they call the Bonne Marche, the 



38 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

Magazin du Louvre, and a few others recall our American 
dimensions, but these are all. And even these are so 
different. Such courtesy, such groupings of colour and 
effect, such facility for choice, above all such bargains ! 
But we must leave this tempting particular discussion for 
another time, and return to the general subject. Every 
rare and exquisite thing known to the refinement of this 
earth is here in its highest perfection. Such fans and 
jewels and trinkets, such toys and porcelain and bronzes, 
such variety of daintinesses for decoration and delight ! 
And such quantities of everything ! If all the countries 
were rich, and all had come here to spend their riches, 
could they do more than keep this world's fair in progress ? 
Is there any provision for the poor ; is tliere any note 
made of their necessities ; is there any chance for them in 
this marvellous pleasure-ground of refinement and wealth? 
Are there any poor left to care for ? 

Turn this other corner and answer for yourself. A 
franc, as you know, is twenty cents, and a franc is made 
up of a hundred centimes. Here are parcels of vege- 
tables, bits of meat, plates of cooked food, well-seasoned 
broths, minute divisions of bread and butter, of fruits and 
seasonings, from a couple of centimes to a gros sous, which 
equals ten. If the franc were actually a dollar it could 
scarce have more purchasing power, and certainly not at 
all the variety of provisions to choose from, which it has 
here. Everything is wholesome and inviting : the benefi- 
cent omnipresence of legal supervision enforces the one ; 
the native tact and taste of the people supply the other. 
Instead of one heavy and tasteless mass, the poor man as well 
as the rich can have his savoury and appetising morsels ; 
and this on the basis of a fifth part of a cent, upon which, as 
being its lowest coin, Erench values are built. Here, too, 
are the materials for the simple clothes, the blouse, the 



FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF PARIS. 39 

apron, the woollen gown, the heavy pantaloon, the child's 
plain, substantial dress. So infinitely cheap are they, 
according to our standard, that one is mute with astonish- 
ment. Here are amusements, circuses, theatres, panoramas, 
side-walk cafis. Here are omnibuses and tramways, going 
for next to nothing into the green fields and country lanes. 
Here are military bands playing at evening in the great 
Squares and wide Places ; and the great Squares and Places 
themselves, the most exquisite and beautiful on earth, 
made glad with fountains and flowers, glorious with 
statues and monuments, filled with brightness by day and 
night, all for the poor man and the poor man's children. 
At least he is as welcome there as his master, and he has 
the consciousness of his right. 

If he has a love for art, what a paradise is here opened 
to him ! Outside and in, these public buildings are such 
marvels. The eye most untrained in technicalities must 
still become accustomed through habit to recognise the 
g(jod and the true in projjortion as well as execution. 
One can imac^ine the heart-hun^^er which Boston, or New 
York, or Chicago, would leave in a nature accustomed to 
this outlook. Everything seems to have been planned 
with a view to beauty. The common street fountains, 
which are always artistically pleasing, and sometimes of 
wondrous elegance, like that of Moliere in the Eue 
Pdchelieu, are things to be thankful for. The groups 
of statuary which make every garden valuable, the arches, 
monuments, and buildings erected to commemorate great 
deeds or fill important needs, are all as rich in love- 
liness as in usefulness. It is a question whether a re- 
public could ever plan and perfect a city on &uch a 
scale of magnificence. The press-ure of private interests, the 
impossibility of moving masses of people toward the same 
conception, is almost an. insuimouxLtable barrier to actions 



40 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

which are not based upon some necessity of business, 
education, material or public progress. The finer and more 
subtle advance which belongs to beauty in architecture, in 
sculpture, in painting, is apt to be lost sight of in more 
pressing needs ; and the handling of the enormous sums of 
money requisite for such outlay is placed beyond the power 
of the people. But the only republics we know are too 
young yet to settle such doubts. 

Let us leave the morning for the evening. If Paris 
shines in the daylight, it is absolutely phosphorescent in 
the darkness. Or is there any darkness ? Myriads and 
myriads of electric lights ; arches and groups and clusters 
of gas-jets in every conceivable nook and corner ; many of 
the shops illuminated, all the caf6s blazing. If carriages 
crowd through the day, they simply swarm now. Even 
on the smooth pavements the flying hoofs make a muffled 
thunder. Singing and dancing pavilions are outlined in 
lamps among the tree-shadows ; a coimtless multitude drifts 
backward and forward over square and street. Every 
carriasje has two large bri^rht lisjhts in front, that flash like 
clouds of glow-worms through the twilight distances. The 
great oval dome of the Hippodrome shines like a moonstone 
against the dark sky ; sounds of music and revelry every- 
where break the customary night quiet ; elegance and fashion 
whirl by on the way to ball and opera ; the bareheaded 
servant girl walks with her sweetheart through flickering 
light and shadow. The little tables on the side-walk are 
thronged with guests making merry over such an infini- 
tesimal glass of wine as would not make a grasshopper tipsy. 
Are there any homes, any firesides, any groups of children 
gathered about father and mother; or is the whole world 
gone mad, and surging in an airy frolic through these 
dazzling streets ? One might almost think so. 



CHAPTER y. 
A FESTIVAL DAY IN PARIS. 

Paris has as many sides as a faceted diamond, and each 
is as polished. It is the paradise of the rich ; it is 
the elysium of the poor ; it is old ; it is new ; it is at 
once the apotheosis of industry and of idleness. In its 
most ordinary aspect it transcends the gala entourage of 
almost any other city on the globe. In its festival dress on 
Sundays and fetes it is wholly unapproachable. It is not 
alone that its architectural effect is so splendidly adapted to 
brilliancy of display ; that its wonderful avenues radiate in 
lines of palaces from the stars about the great monuments 
from which they start; that its streets and fountains, and 
statues and public places, make such superb centres from 
which the long, beautiful perspectives stretch away to the 
gentle heights in the distance. This is much, but it is not 
all. The genius of the people seems to ally itself to seasons 
of excitement and rejoicing. When other races are glad, 
this is jubilant ; when other people simply enjoy, these go 
wild with delight. And this frenzy seems to be shared by 
their surroundings. ' One would say the very houses caught 
the enthusiasm. 

To-day, with the subtle magnetism of to-morrow's opening 
in the air, the city seems to have gone mad altogether. The 
fact that the Exposition has been planned to commemorate 
the centenary of the great revolutionary movement of 1789 
seems to rouse these impressible natures to an almost savage 



4 2 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

power of emotion. They shout, they langh, they shriek wild 
] lirases with harsh, guttural voices ; they dance to choruses 
tiiat have more of passion than of music in them. There is 
a sort of breathless fervour in the air. One feels as if at 
any moment the crowds might become mobs ; yet everything 
is done decently and in order. Wide as the magnificent 
avenues are, they are narrow for the surging masses. The 
Champs Elysees is packed with a quivering, excited multi- 
tude waiting — for what ? There is nothing beyond. It is 
only that the remembrance of a hundred years ago revives 
again in the hearts of the descendants of the citizens and 
citizenesses who dragged Louis XVI. to the guillotine, and 
spat at Marie Antoinette as she walked in sombre and 
lonely majesty from her death sentence. 

The city is a marvellous picture of colour. How little we 
know as yet of the art of decoration as compared with this 
people. But then, too, how little we have to decorate! 
These marvellous highways of palaces, each with its double, 
triple, quadruple avenues of trees carrying the eye down 
their long vistas, these great Places grouped around some 
central magnificence of bronze or marble, these wonderful 
facades with the glory of Greece or Eome, or the florid 
beauty of the Renaissance, gathered about frieze, column, and 
peristyle — how can they help but be more marvellous, more 
magnificent, more wonderful than ever. Staffs of blue, of 
white, of red, of gold, "high as the mast of some tall Admiral," 
line the streets, lifting their burden of pendants, of banners, 
of shields above the tree tops, connected by long garlands of 
smaller flags, wound about and draped with slender scarfs of 
vivid colour. Sheafs of standards glowing in every conceivable 
elegance of form and tint brighten the beautiful stone arches 
of the bridges, decorate the entablatures of the windows, droop 
from the balconies, outline the eaves, the gables, the archi- 
tectural lines. Forests of flags rise above the roofs, float from 



A FESTIVAL DAY IN PARIS. 43 

the boughs of the trees, wave even above the chimney tops. 
Every nation on the face of the earth is represented by its 
national emblems, but the tricolours outnumber them ten 
to one, and the effect is beyond expression. Small bands of 
Foldiers march with swinging step hither and thither, detailed 
for duty to-night and to-morrow ; soldiers in the long redin- 
gote of the Guard, the braided jacket of the Hussar, the 
blouse of the Zouave, the frogged coat of the Cuirassier. 
Here is the long horsehair plume, borrowed from the Uhlan, 
there the Prussian helmet, now the small French cap, then 
the fierce military shako. Officers with jingling swords and 
spurs, men with sabre and musket, uniforms of blue, grey, 
white, scarlet, they make a bouquet of brightness even among 
the people in their gaiety of Sunday clothes. Gas jets and 
ropes of globes are strung in every direction. They droop 
from the topmost pinnacles of the tallest buildings, falling 
to the ground in what will be long draperies of light; they 
hang like blossoms from the trees, they spring like flowers 
from the parterres of the parks and gardens. The great 
towers of the Trocadero, the domes of halls, the spires of 
churches are ready to blaze out in a galaxy of splendour so 
soon as night gives the necessary background. Surely never 
before, even in the palmy days of the Empire, was such a 
glory of brilliancy as this about to be lavished on the festival 
of the working people. 

In the Place de la Concorde, as might be imagined, all this 
scintillance of form and colour centres. At each side of the 
Luxor obelisk, two staffs, nearly as tall as the monument 
itself, hold up silken scarfs of the most brilliant colour, with 
long pendants which twine about like fiery serpents. A per- 
fect maze of gas jets, each bearing a globe of white light, 
winds in, out, and about in every conceivable direction. They 
cover the entire surface with an arabesque that soon will 
blaze with transcendent brilliancy. There is not a point of 



44 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

vantage left untouched. Even without illumination the effect 
is dazzling. It is hard to imagine what it may be with it. 
And between such an efflorescence of gilding, of silver, of 
scarlet, of purple in the swarm of floating banners, the sight 
grows dizzy. 

Every park, square, and garden is radiant with life. Until 
late in the day there is an enormous proportion of children 
among the group. Such winsome darlings. There are ador- 
able baby faces resting on the shoulders of stout Norman or 
Breton bonnes, their floating long robes almost sweeping the 
ground ; there are pretty little dolls in white from tip to toe, 
all lace and silk ; there are sturdy small boys with the in- 
variable short stocking, showing bare, mottled legs from boot 
to knee, and the queer trousers wrinkled above ; there are 
little girls in the simplest dresses that ever were formed for 
childhood, and other little girls in the most elaborate costumes 
that the fertile brain of a French modiste can conceive. 
The nurses are as picturesque as their charges, with their 
frilled white caps surmounted by a great turban of wide 
ribbon, from which two enormous floating ends reach within 
an inch or two of the dress hem. I wonder some daring soul 
has not introduced this innovation in America. What is the 
use of importing a French bonne shorn of her glory of peasant 
cloak and silken turban ! What a sensation Madame would 
make in the Public Garden or Lincoln Park with one of these 
resplendent creatures occupying the front seat of the carriage 
with the latest hope of the house in her brawny arms ! 

One continuous stream of people has been passing since 
morning toward the Trocadero. This beautiful structure, 
erected for the purpose of containing the works of art during 
the Exposition of 1878, is to be one of the principal entrances 
to the present exhibition. It gives by far the most impres- 
sive view of the grounds and architectural plan of the build- 
ings to be found in Paris. In one of its great square towers 



A FESTIVAL DAY IN PARIS. 45 

a huge elevator carries eighty persons at a time to an eleva- 
tion of 220 feet. From the upper gallery thus reached, a 
most enchanting panorama presents itself. The natural rise 
of the ground from the level of the river banks added to the 
height of the tower gives a rise of over 300 feet, from which 
the eye seizes the entire plan of Paris within its semicircle 
of hills. The Seine, which makes a bold curve just at this 
point, stretches right and left under the lovely arches of 
the frequent bridges ; the great avenues radiate from their 
different central stars ; the lines of trees and palaces cross 
each other in a bewildering labyrinth of splendour, while the 
massive fronts of the great public buildings make each new 
point upon which the eye rests memorable. The towers of 
Notre Dame, the decorated dome of the Invalides, the ornate 
spire of St. Augustine, the fine lines of the Chamber of 
Deputies, especially claim attention. Facing the river the 
new Exposition Buildings fill the entire 120 acres of the 
surface of the Champ de Mars, and reach along the esplanades 
of the river as far as the bridge of Solferino far down its 
banks. In the immediate foreground are the beautiful 
Trocadero Gardens, with their green terraces descending to 
the bridge of Jena, their paths winding amid pavilions and 
fountains, with several of the smaller buildings connected 
with the Exposition among them. To-day all this portion is 
planted with lights and banners. The gardens look as if 
they bad been sown with white lilies, so thick are the globes 
of gas jets ; the enormous arcades stretching at each side of 
the central pavilion are crowded with pyramids of yellow 
lanterns placed between each of the close pillars ; domes and 
towers are outlined in ropes of stars, and carry the same great 
pyramids like clusters of golden fruit high into the air. The 
winged statue of Fame which tops the central rotunda has 
been newly gilded, and shines, a dazzling image, in the sun- 
light. Across the water rise the main halls of the great 



46 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

exliibition. A wilderness of pagodas and minarets of every 
possible shape and description, fragile and massive, surround 
the principal buildings, which stretch their arched glass roofs 
on three sides of an enormous quadrangle. The middle space 
is a fairy garden of flowers, palms, fountains, and statues. 
But all about it what diverse and fantastic shapes ! Domes 
tiled in blue and white, in deep sapphire and amber, in 
crystal, in bronze, in silver, in gold. Slender spires touched 
with carmine, glowing like malachite, armoured in shining 
scales, all tipped with flying streamers and floating banners, 
and airy figures with outstretched golden pinions, as if ready 
to fly to the ends of the earth to proclaim the glory of which 
they form part. Eesplendent as the rest of the city is in its 
festival dress, this brilliant spectacle makes all the rest tame 
and quiet. One's eyes, weary with the brightness, turn for 
relief to the grey roofs and the tree embraced lines, the 
heights of Montmartre and the soft shadows of Pere la 
Chaise. 

Meantime, out at Versailles cannon are thundering, and 
the President of the Republic is being welcomed by shouts 
from thousands of loyal and lusty throats as he drives to 
open the ceremonial of the exhibition. Around him are 
grouped the great ones of the nation. There are Legrand and 
Christophle, with faces as English as any Londoner in the 
Strand ; Lockroy, who would pass for an American save for 
his remarkable collar and loose necktie ; Berger and Alphaut, 
who represent wholly cosmopolitan types ; and Tirard and 
Rouvier, French dit sang pur. Not so pure, however, as 
Carnot himself, who has a strange resemblance to Gericke, 
but who is Gallic to his finger tips. In the midst of the 
desert of Sahara one would recognise him as a product of 
the Parisian boulevards. The national troops are drawn up 
before the gates of the chateau ; the great orchestra is dis- 
coursing the strains of Berlioz's Marseillaise in the park 



A FES'l'IVAL DAY IN PARIS. 47 

gardens, and the ''Great "Waters" are beginning to flow 
throngli the magical system of fountains, from their rise in 
the Salle de Bal to the Baths of Diana and the grand basin 
of the Dragon. Truly, a wonderful and unforgetable sight. 
But prudent people, who value life and limb, will remain at 
home to read the account in to-morrow's journals instead of 
inviting destruction by trying to pierce through the surging 
crowds, who, on this anniversary of the revolution, may seethe 
into something of the old fury of '93 or the later madness of 
^71. At the best, a mass of people, with the reins ef conduct 
held loose, and the ordinary rules of decorum lost in the 
license of excitement, is a dangerous entity. But a French 
mob, however good-natured, with the volatile disposition and 
mercurial temperament which belongs to it, is more dangerous 
than any. One could as soon depend upon the stability of 
quicksilver. 

It is evening now, and the entire horizon is aglow with 
illuminations. There is not to be the general lighting up 
which is reserved for to-morrow night, but it is a sort of 
rehearsal. The great electric ball on the topmost point of 
the Eiffel Tower glows from its thousand feet of height like 
some new planet, more brilliant and scarcely smaller than 
the full moon, or like some enormous comet, drawn from its 
hiding place in heaven, and trailing its streamers of light 
across the dark sky. Now and again, from a point just 
beneath it, a smaller but equally bright ray shoots in this or 
that direction as it is turned upon its revolving basis, lighting 
up the farthest suburbs of Paris. From the Trocadero an- 
other enormous revolving wheel sends electric spokes of light 
swiftly flying over the city. Viewed from any of the bridges 
over the river this has the most weird effect. A great fan- 
shaped segment of white flame darts across the dark heavens, 
dazzlingly radiant at the base, and paling to the faintest glow 
of summer lightning at the summit, which broadens until it 



48 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

covers all the visible firmament. For an instant domes, 
spires, gables, and towers are touched into being out of the 
solemn shadow, to fade again as swiftly, until the next flash 
re-illumines ; and this goes on indefinitely — a great star of 
radiance shooting its rays into eternity. It gives one a 
ghostly sensation to watch it noiselessly whirling through 
space. Every boat upon the Seine is glowing with Chinese 
lanterns and casting long reflections of coloured fire over the 
dark waters, which shine like black diamonds. The whole 
immense mass of the Chamber of Deputies is outlined in a 
double row of great lamps against the dense blackness of the 
starless night ; the spire of St. Augustine lifts a pagoda-like 
cluster of golden balls above the house-tops. Darting rockets 
soar from the distant heights ; flushes of ruby, of sapphire, 
of emerald, flame up and vanish. And between it all, laugh- 
ing, singing, shouting, go the people, swaying from side to 
side of the broad streets, gathered on squares and bridges, 
sitting on the parapets of the river, crowding omnibuses and 
tramways, dashing about in the rapid small fiacres, anywhere, 
everywhere at once. For is it not Paris, and is this not the 
beginning of their own Festival ? A has le chagrin ! Vive 
lajoie! Vive la France ! 



CHAPTER YI. 

THE GREAT EXPOSITION. 

When the Great Exposition of 1889 is a thing of the past 
it will have left much behind it beside the impress of its 
passing splendour. But even for this alone it might count 
as one of the landmarks of history. The marvellous beauty 
of arrangement about the grounds ; the size and magnificence 
of the main buildings ; the endless display of ingenuity and 
artistic taste manifested in the smallest details of decoration 
and construction, make up a scene of enchantment. The 
reproductions of human dwellings, from historic models of 
habitations fifteen or twenty centuries before Christ to those 
of every strange and far away nation of the present day, make 
one phase of boundless interest. Malay huts, built on piles 
in the midst of ponds, chalets of Switzerland and Norway, 
tents of Arabs, Mexican adobes, Tartar camps, Kafiir kraals, 
Indian wigwams, Russian isbas, Esquimaux snow huts, 
Bedouin encampments — there is no end to the variety. 
Even to dwellings of the Cave-men it is complete in its 
summary of history. Some of the Greek, Roman, Babylonian, 
and Assyrian houses are furnished with great delicacy both 
within and without, surrounded by the vegetation peculiar to 
their respective climates. Lanes and alleys shaded by trees 
and bright with flowers lead in every direction through thia 
section, as carefully laid out as if they were destined to 
remain for ever. 

The wonderful structure of Eiffel which dominates the 

49 D 



50 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

entire panorama, and which has created as great confusion of 
sentiment as its antitype the Tower of Babel did of tongues, 
is really not the grotesque monster its enemies would have 
one believe. Its extreme height gives an appearance of 
fragility which masks its strength, until one stands under 
the glorious sw^eep of the lower arches, springing from four 
fortress-like corners, and capable of enclosing an army. One 
feels a thrill of mystery, almost of awe, in looking up at the 
slender dark he;id lifted a thousand feet into the sky by day 
and the stars at night ; and when red flames begin to burn 
about it, and the great electric light atop sends broad waves 
of white radiance across the darkness, it is almost super- 
natural. Mountains may climb to the skies, and giant 
precipices lift their frowning brows to heaven, but how 
should man dare aspire to such loftiness. 

In the centre of the long pavilions devoted to the vine- 
yards of France, the glass roofs of which are decorated in 
trellis work with twining leaves and tendrils painted with 
extreme delicacy around it, is the tun of wine sent by the 
vintners of Auvergnat. It contains 200,000 bottles of cham- 
pagne ; and the hogshead, which is as large as a house of 
two stories, twenty feet square, is ornamented with allegoric 
figures sitting amid vines and grapes. The French papers 
tell many amusing stories of the slow triumphal march of 
this monarch of casks to the capital. They pretend that 
hedges were torn down, streets widened, sides of houses and 
overhanging eaves torn away ; and that one irate peasant, 
enraged at the indignity shown his dwelling, laid a spiritual 
habeas corpus upon the monster, and succeeded in holding 
it until damages had been paid him. The roadway betv/een 
these pavilions is lined with growing specimens of vines from 
every wine-growing district in France, with small tablets 
recording the average productive power of each variety, with 
the cost and quality of the manufactured product. This, With 



THE GREAT EXPOSITION. 5 1 

the section at one end devoted to what might be called the 
pathology of the grape, including every form of morbid 
growth and insect which could impair its health and vigour, 
— must be of vast benefit to all interested in vine culture. 

It is strange to note the intense sympathy of the people 
when sight or sound of military manoeuvre reaches them. 
Something like a deep groan of content ran through the 
city like an electric shock at each boom of the cannon yester- 
day. When in addition the glare of bombs and fireworks 
lit up the sky in the evening, they too exploded with enthu- 
siasm. Well-dressed men shouted with delight ; bands of 
students and grisettes broke into the chorus of the Mar- 
seillaise or blew through penny trumpets. " Mais, cest 
magnijique," said a stalwart young workman near us, as 
boom and flash came together: '"'Cest presque comme une 
6meute!" As if a riot or a revolution were the dearest 
thing on earth. Alas, have they not yet learned the danger 
of playing with edge tools? When they remember so 
bitterly, how can they forget so easily. 

How little the Queen of Sheba would have thought of the 
glory of Solomon if she could have walked through the 
Central Pavilion to-day. Inside the great dome, with its 
wealth of glass golden stained, and its wonderful symphony 
of colour from amber to orange, the light falls in a rain of 
mellow sunshine, rich but not glaring, which might have 
heralded the descent of Jove to Danae. The superb dimen- 
sions are so well balanced that one gets no impression of 
the actual size until figures help the understanding. The 
fine frieze representing in triumphal procession all the 
nations of the earth, is set like a band of rare tapestry in the 
gold of the decorated wall, half way up the three hundred 
feet of height. It is a splendid study of the value of yellow. 
Beyond stretch the blue and grey arches of the main 
pavilion, with the main tint so overlaid with arabesques in 



52 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

soft warm hues that one can scarce detect the original back- 
ground ; and under the great arcades, radiant with frescoes 
and gilding, whatever has been accomplished for the pros- 
perity, the helpfulness, the luxury of humanity, is gathered in 
masses. Here are potteries and ceramics from every great 
house in the world which has won fame in this direction. 
Here is the jewelled glass of Bohemia and Hungary, like 
constellations of brilliants held in shape by a mesh of golden 
sunbeams, or silver moonlight, glittering, flashing, scintillant 
with precious stones, as full of fire as their brethren of the 
mine. Here are the gems themselves woven into parure and 
necklace, fashioned into ear and finger jewels; in bracelets 
and brooches and zones, in stars and sprays and delicate 
frost work, as evanescent as the rays which break from them. 
And wealth of beaten gold and silver ; and tapestries more 
beautiful than those the queens of old worked for royal 
banqueting halls ; and carpets which would muffle the tread 
of an army ; and rugs from Turkey and Persia, with the 
strange dark beauty of the fabled dyes of Tyre glowing in 
their barbaric richness. Here are couches so carved that 
they seem to belong more to Eastern seraglios than to 
western civilisation ; perfumes as delicate and subtle as 
those of dreams ; bronzes full of untamed strength and wild 
motion ; Italian marbles like frozen snow images ; velvets 
and satins for the robes and mantles of empresses ; robes 
and mantles themselves, draped into such folds of grace as 
never were known in the history of dress. And with these, 
every device known to human ingenuity for lightening of 
labour and saving of time ; helps for work and for play, for 
high and lowly, for home and abroad, for sickness and health; 
helps innumerable for keeping alive that blessed peace of 
which this whole festival is but a token. No wonder the 
heart swells in beholding, for this is the holiday of labour, 
the crowning triumph of industry. It is not the might of 



THE GREAT EXPOSITION. 53 

kings which has brought about these marvels, but the honest 
toil and ceaseless industry of the common people. These 
and these alone have offered the golden key which opens 
these doors of fairyland. 

But after all, it is the Pavilion of Liberal Arts which marks 
the highest point of hopefulness and progress here, as in the 
real work of the world. Material treasures, rare and precious 
as they are, appeal only to the senses, and they seduce 
rather than uplift. To produce them, it is still labour of 
hands, strength of muscle, sweat of the brow which is 
necessary. Of themselves, they do not greatly change the 
condition of the peoples who produce them. Apotheosis of 
industry though this be, there are yet woes and injustices 
inherent in the very causes which command its production. 
Slaves of the lamp and the mine still toil and serve under 
the worst conditions of bondage, in order that these glories 
shall flash before the unaccustomed eyes of men. The lace- 
maker, losing eyesight over her pillow; the little children 
chained to the mill wheels of Manchester and Birmingham ; 
the Indian weaver spending weary years over one product of 
his loom, barely sustained by the scant wage it affords him — 
these too are commemorated in this glowing pile of riches. 
But the guiding touch, the elevating thought which wins 
them little by little from degradation, which replaces the curse 
of labour by its blessing, which carries light and recompense 
and well-earned rest to the homes and bodies of the toilers, 
these spring from the enlightenments Education brings ; 
and the tools with which she works are in that plain pavilion 
yonder. The living principle, the motif of this grand Fes- 
tival Overture is there, a thousandfold more than in any 
of its more brilliant variations. It is the chemistry and 
electricity, it is the silent struggle of science with the forces 
of matter, which have made it possible to uplift those shining 
banners of victory. And in these directions it is good for an 



54 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

American to see how far Edison has distanced all his fellow- 
workers. It is a splendid showing, for everj'thing here adds 
to the firm fibre of the soul, and lifts the mortal into relation 
with the Infinite. Every instrument which the genius of 
man has dedicated to the higher uses of science is here, with 
the name which has made it famous. No country and no 
race has been forgotten, and the roll of honour stretches from 
end to end of the vast building. 

Next to this probably in value, because of the power they 
wield as an artistic impulse and an education to the spiritual 
element in man, are the exhibits of painting and sculpture. 
Naturally those of France both in number and excellence 
lead the rest ; though England represents a brilliant galaxy 
of names in its smaller collection, and the United States has a 
very creditable display. When it is remembered that France 
alone sends 1447 canvases, most of them large, and many of 
heroic size; 228 pastels and water-colours ; i 38 architectural 
designs; 455 etchings; and 568 pieces of sculpture and en- 
graving on medals, the scope occupied in their exhibition may 
be imagined. Great Britain has five or six large halls with 
specimens from most of her best modern names, and a large 
number of works already made known to us by engravings. 
"Cherry Eipe," "Bubbles," "At Evening Time there shall 
be Light," and " The Eeturn of the Fishing-Boat," were some 
of these. Austria-Hungary had nearly as many ; amontr 
them Munkacsy's "Christ before Pilate," and "Crucifixion," 
with the usual number of scoffers and admirers regarding 
both. Spain has a veritable chamber of horrors; nearly 
all the large pictures having for sui)jects most brutal and 
bloody scenes, magnificently executed, so that it is quite 
a physical effort to overcome the repulsion they produce. 
Eussia has the merit of having chosen individual types and 
events from among its own people. Too many of the 
other nations are satisfied with followins: French models 



THE GREAT EXPOSITION. 55 

and subjects, so that they lose character and atmosphere. 
Out of the haze of general impressions which one carries away 
from this department a few canvases stand out vividly, like 
the wonderful portraits of Carolus Duran, the illusive, haunt- 
ing figure of one of Whistler's beauties, or Detaille's band of 
mounted soldiers, singing as they wind along a curving path 
through the marshes. The dash and ease of motion are remark- 
able in this. A warm sunset glow is in the sky behind, with 
the light reflected in shallow pools along the way ; the pale 
sickle of the new moon shines faintly above ; one of the leaders 
clashes a pair of cymbals, another shakes a tambourine, while 
a third, turning in his saddle, beats time for the comrades be- 
hind. One can fancy the Marseillaise rolling into the soft 
evening air with accompaniment of jingling spur and muffled 
tramp of horses, while a white haze of dust rises about the knees 
of the men. Among the portraits there is the unmistakable 
stamp of the Parisienne. The clear paleness of tint, the large 
spirituelle eyes, the veiled touch of espUglcrie — too fine for 
roguishness and too demure for coquetry, but still a combina- 
tion of both — and the innate grace of pose, make the pictured 
forms quite unlike any other race of women. There is a 
much smaller proportion of the nude than we have been 
accustomed to see in French Exhibitions at home ; and less 
too of that sentimental sickly green in the landscapes which 
looks as if nature had been washed out. 

The Hall of Sculpture is rich throughout its endless length 
with beauty. But the nude figures are more aggressive ; 
the Dianas, of which there must be a dozen, have a flavour 
of the demi-monde which scarce suits the goddess of chastity. 
The Greek purity which so permeated form as to make- i^ 
divine and passionless has not yet been found by modiem 
sculptors, at least when French blood is in their veins. But 
there are many beautiful and stately conceptions : a tender 
youthful Antigone leading the blind Oedipus ; heroic forms, 



56 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

struggling or victorious ; vestal virgins ; mothers witli laugh- 
ing babes in arm ; a gracious figure of Pestalozzi with children 
looking lovingly into the kind face ; a youth with fine fury 
in his desperate glance holding the head of a dying comrade, 
while he speeds his last arrow at the foe. Imagine hundreds 
and hundreds of these and kindred subjects, standing in white 
silence in a stately hall lighted throughout by a glass roof 
supported on slender blue pillars, with walls panelled in dull 
red and hung with antique drapery, and you get some idea 
of this division of the Pavilion of Fine Arts at the Great 
Exposition. 



CHAPTEE YII. 

THE VICTORIES OF PEACE AND LABOUR, 

The Frencli journals overflow, with great reason, in felicita- 
tions on the success of the Exposition. They congratulate 
the people upon the fact that this great centralisation of 
interests marks the entrance of France again to its old posi- 
tion as mistress of the world in the specialties she had made 
her own. Figaro quotes Heine's apostrophe to his beloved 
Paris : " my beautiful Lutice ! You shall not be replaced 
in your sovereign power by that other capital which is but 
the white Timbuctoo of Europe, as Timbuctoo is the black 
Berlin of Africa." When one reads the enthusiastic com- 
ments of the Press in other countries, one is not surprised at 
such outbursts. This enterprise was frowned down by mostly 
every government, on the ground of its association with 
revolutionary principles, yet its consummation has forced 
the most unstinted commendation from Vienna, Pesth, St. 
Petersburg, Italy, Belgium, England, America, and even 
Prussia itself. 

If the other divisions of this World's Fair deserve the 
names of Temples of Industry, consecrated to the religion of 
peace and labour, the pavilion devoted to machinery might 
be called its Cathedral. The span of the glass and iron arch 
is so immensely broad and high, and the quarter of a mile 
length so tremendous, that it gives the effect of stepping into 
the open air after the closeness and draperies of the other 
portions. It is always thronged ; for though few comprehend 

57 



58 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

the principles of machinery, there are fewer who are not 
interested in its manifestations. On every side of this great 
expanse, stationary and movable bridges rise in the air; every 
form and variety of motive force has its special representa- 
tion ; the inventive genius of the age finds its highest expres- 
sion. An army of workmen attend the movements of these 
wonderful constructions — mind serving matter. Another 
army hidden from sight under foot feeds the fires and regu- 
lates the batteries which form the vital principle of this 
world of motion. What an idea of the concentration pro- 
duced by association it gives to see the dependence of each 
part on the other. What an argument for freedom in the 
interchange of thought and action among men ! 

America — outside Edison — seems to be losing her old 
prestige in invention. The American temperament, eager, 
curious, morbidly active, has always appeared particularly 
fitted for the evolution of ways and means, especially in 
material forms. But up to this time little has been done in 
the training of nature beyond sharpening this blind instinct 
on the whetstone of emulation and greed of gain. Meantime 
the older and wiser nations have gone on patiently teaching, 
carefully preparing, laying the foundation for clear under- 
standing and exact execution ; and they are beginning to 
beat us on our own ground. The audacity which leads us 
to be first in experiment is very well, but it should be supple- 
mented by better things. For many years now the eyes of 
political economists and educators among us have been open 
to the evils arising from decay of the apprentice system and 
delay in founding industrial schools. Our tradespeople are 
becoming more and more machine-tenders, knowing little 
and caring less about anything beyond the crank they turn, 
or the atom of wood or iron they place in a slot. There is 
no motive for thought, and scarce any need of judgment. An 
intelligent monkey could be taught to do the same thing. 



PEACE AND LABOUR. 59 

So when we need brains as well as manipulation we are 
forced to import Belgian or French trained artisans. 

In trying to sum up the results of the Exposition, there is 
one issue, not readily recognised by the general public, which 
will probably be found in the future to have given as great 
an impetus to the cause of human progress as all the rest of 
this great, magnificent, tangible creation which it supple- 
ments. This is, the series of international congresses to be 
held in Paris during the months covered by the Exhibition. 
Through June, July, August, September, and October, seventy 
of these reunions have been arranged, embracing delegates 
from all lands, and lasting each from five to ten days. There 
is scarce a phase connected with the higher civilisation of 
mankind which is not recognised in this splendid pro- 
gramme. Every form of legal and medical jurisprudence; 
the rights of labour and employers; questions of philan- 
thropy, industry, and sanitation; education in all its branches; 
inventions ; the discussion of peace ; industrial schools : physi- 
cal training ; women's needs and aspirations ; temperance — all 
the topics which bear upon the welfare of the individual and 
the political economy of nations, have each their time and 
place for study and discussion. The names which head the 
different commissions as presidents include many of the most 
distinguished in France. Jules Simon in literature, Levasseur 
in education, Mascart in electricity, Meissonier in art, Eiffel 
in engineering, Fabret, Brouardel, and Charcot in medicine, 
Leon Say, Passy, Janssen, and David each in their special- 
ties, speak sufficiently for the interest these advanced minds 
take in the subjects endeared to them by thought and study. 
It is among the army of specialists which these men lead, and 
in the ranks of this Legion of Honour, that the motto chosen 
for this universal festival, " Pax et Labor," finds meaning 
and strength. A century ago peace would have been as 
sounding brass or tinkling cymbal amid the forces of the 



6o A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

world. It is to the persistent effort, the quiet but cease- 
less agitation, the inculcation of purer and nobler principle 
which this group represents, that we owe whatever has been 
gained in making right, rather than might, arbiter in the 
affairs of men. The richer the hostages given to fortune in 
this regard, the stronger the foundations upon which the 
prosperity of society rests, the more difficult it becomes to 
move the mind to a belief in the necessity for strife ; and 
what Christianity has been painfully and slowly accomplish- 
ing for nearly two thousand years, the increased intelli^Tence 
of the majorities which make public opinion will produce in 
a hundred. The magnificent step taken by England and 
America in settling their Alabama claims by arbitration is 
being followed slowly but surely toward the platform of 
universal peace. And this Exposition of 1889 is one of the 
broad lifts upward, since it signalises the triumph of the 
people in the quiet paths of order and industry, rather than 
the prestige of rulers and the false glory of brute force. 

As if to vindicate themselves from any suspicion of depen- 
dence upon the will of their respective governments, and to 
prove how thoroughly they have learned to live in and for 
themselves, the people have flooded these two or three hundred 
acres of space with an inconceivable marvel of wealth. It is 
like flinging the velvet glove which covers the iron hand of 
labour in the face of power. Walking through the endless 
aisles, dazzled by the infinite variations of refinement and 
luxury everywhere, one could not help repeating the legend 
which Eevelation offered to Faith, and applying to this 
temporal kingdom a phrase meant only for the heavenly. 
Truly " it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive " 
the glories of this world which man hath created. It is a 
little interesting to note that France, in the miles of avenues 
along which her products are exhibited, is surpassed by the 
other nations competing in many specialties which used to 



PEACE AND LABOUR. 6 I 

be considered exclusively her own. There is nothing in her 
jewellery so original and exquisite as the designs of Tiffany 
of New York or Christessen of Copenhagen. Her glass is 
dull beside the jewelled splendours of Bohemia ; her lace less 
delicate than the hoar-frost daintiness of Belgian handiwork ; 
her watches commonplace when compared with those of Swiss 
manufacture. Even in fashion, Redfern of London has the 
most artistic costumes as well as the richest. But her Limoges 
faience is superb, and the Sevres as miraculous of tint and 
tender in decoration as ever ; her tapestries as marvellous as 
the paintings of the old masters they reproduced; and in 
the countless little prettinesses upon which so much of the 
pleasure of ordinary life depends she is still supreme. 

It is rather remarkable to note, through the different 
departments of the main exhibition of industrial arts, the 
prevalence of a return to old forms and designs, instead of 
an attempt to push original conceptions. In the patterns 
of laces, the colours and effects in draperies, the forms of 
iron, wood, and metals, this is most noticeable. The Hun- 
garian potteries and Bohemian glass show it in a very 
marked degree. One can trace the effect of the Cypress 
collections which have been made familiar to designers by 
Cesnola; and the discoveries of Haussmann have certainly 
had a strong bearing upon recent workmanship. It gives a 
grace and beauty to outward shape that is extremely grate- 
ful to the eye, and a harmony both of tint and ornamenta- 
tion to which we have often been unused. Some of the 
Danish jewellery is particularly good in this respect. The 
gold brooches, whether enamelled or in the natural colour, 
are very beautiful — above all some crosses dating from the 
time of Canute and the early centuries. The bucklers and 
shields of the Norse heroes are strongly suggested by these 
richly ornamented creations, which have an artistic value 
wholly beyond their intrinsic worth. They are as rare and 



62 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

fine in their simpler way as the wonderful jewelled orchids 
of Tiffany in their extreme splendour. Nothing so gorgeous 
as these last, in jewels, has ever been offered before, and 
tbey are as amazing for originality as for beauty. They are 
one of the triumphs of modern artistic training. 

The Italian lamps are another compliment to the past, in 
the ancient forms which have been so closely copied. These 
are wondrously elegant and decorative, whether in wrought 
black iron or costlier silver. Compared with the tawdry 
effects of the usual manufactured articles they are pure 
works of art. But to one who sees for the first time France, 
Italy, or any of these earlier nations, it is not strange that 
in such productions their work should so outrank our own. 
The whole life of their people is passed among the purest 
artistic influences. The houses they live in, the churches 
and cathedrals which play so large a part in their education, 
the facades of their public buildings, the fountains, arches, 
monuments, statues, terraces — each and everything is a 
training of the senses and the imagination. Already to 
start from, they are at a point which we can only reach by 
great effort in centuries. It is impossible not to be im- 
pregnated with the spirit of refinement and grace which is 
so omnipresent ; and when to this is added the more impres- 
sionable and plastic nature, there can be but one result. Each 
has its specialties in which it is most successful, as each has 
the fauna and flora which belong to its climatic conditions ; 
but always art, which is but an emigrant with us, is indigenous 
here. Pray heaven that we may ever reach the time when 
we too may hail it as a gift of nature rather than of grace ! 

The shopkeepers and theatre managers complain that the 
attractions of the Exposition Grounds in the evening draw 
their customers away, and leave the streets empty. Who 
wonders that they succumb to the enchanting beauty of 
alleys and walks outlined in fire and blazing with light until 



PEACE AND LABOUR. 63 

they are positively unearthly. Every garden bed is full of 
strangely luminous flowers ; the great domes shine against 
the sky in outlines of flame ; the Eiffel Tower, with its lofty 
platforms illuminated, throws revolving shafts of lightning 
far into the dense blackness of the upper atmosphere. The 
encampments of restaurants, with their platoons of small 
tables laden with ices, cake, and wine, are resonant with a 
running fire of clattering spoons and clinking glasses ; bands 
are playing in the stands here and there ; the oriental quarters 
are tinkling with dancing feet and barbaric music ; cascades 
of water are falling in showers of diamonds, emeralds, and 
topaz. It would be surprising if the long bright avenues 
outside were not emptied. But are they ? The sky is red- 
dened with the glare of the customary illumination ; joyous 
strains from the concert halls are in the air; revellers of 
every grade and sex are on their way to public or private 
amusements ; the concierge holds a reception of his friends 
at each courtyard gate ; all is life, bustle, animation. Where 
could we pack that other quarter of a million if the Exposition 
gates should suddenly open ? Do not be afraid. You would 
never be conscious of it. What are a few waves more or less 
to the swell of the ocean ? 

I believe the strongest charm of this city is its appearance 
of leisure. A sort of careless ease disguises every effort, as 
the smooth whiteness of the skin hides the knitting of the 
muscles. There is something grateful and relaxing to worried 
minds and bodies in this outward seeming of a world which 
takes life graciously, unhurriedly. It is then possible to be 
prosperous, happy, and undriven at the same time ! It is 
possible to combine rational exertion which shall be sure to 
bring rational reward, with time to look about one, to smile 
in the face of a friend, to gambol with one's children, to be 
impelled by fancy or inclination, instead of being wound up 
like a machine. How soothing it is. So the tension uncon- 



64 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

Bciously relaxes, and the balm of restfulness begins to work. 
There never was a place where, without moral qualm or 
struggle, one resigns himself to idleness as in Paris. There 
is so much to distract. The attention is carried so completely 
away from self to interest in the beautiful surroundings. 
History lives so in the streets and walls. Such a Walhalla 
of spirits opens before one, majestic, powerful, picturesque ; 
ibrces that centuries ago moved the world into the paths it 
is now treading. And all in such a setting, such a golden 
framework of magnificence, as satisfies every desire of the 
heart. There is no emotion, no aspiration left unsatisfied ; 
and the gratification is so subtle, it is transmitted through 
such a radiance of atmosphere, that one is conscious only of 
the result of satisfaction without any efibrt in attaining it. 



CHAPTEE VIII. 

AMONG THE PARIS CHURCHES, 

Although Notre Dame is considered by critics to be lack- 
ing in many essential architectural points, and to lose much 
of its impressiveness from the changed character of its sur- 
roundings, it moves the stranger who regards it from with- 
out or within with a great force of reverence. The square 
through which it is approached gives the requisite perspective 
for the singular beauty of its fagade, rising like an immense 
reredos in a lofty screen of sculptured stone, surmounted by 
the pierced arches of its upper gallery. The delicate carv- 
ings of the square towers, and the mass of figures, medallions 
and allegorical subjects, which encrust the three great 
portals, lend richness to the dark grey granite that might 
otherwise be too sombre. To the very tips of the parapets, 
this beautiful confusion of traceries, bas-reliefs, and statues 
continues ; the diabolic and grotesque in the sbape of 
monsters and animals, being mingled with the devotional in 
gargoyle and fretted work, in an infinite variety of detail. 
Not an inch of space is left unimproved, as if loving labour 
sought to lavish its best care and thoughtfulness upon the 
decoration. Viewed from the side, the eff'^ct is equally fine, 
with the strange, slender, arrow-shaped ^pire rising from 
the centre of the long roof line, and the airiness of flying 
buttresses lightening the majestic height of the wall. But 
it is the interior which most greatly seizes the imao-ination. 
The profound depth and height, full of sombre dimness, 

65 E 



66 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

through which the faint light from the stained glass of the 
high choir windows at the upper end falls brokenly ; the 
massive pillars rising from the obscurity of dark aisles and 
flowering into the climbing arches of the roof ; the occasional 
radiance of the rich glass in the side chapels, half hiding, 
lialf revealing, the groups of white marble statues and monu- 
ments which they contain ; and the enormous effect of dis- 
tance which the extreme height and narrowness of the cen- 
tral nave produces, is grandly impressive. Here and there, 
noiseless figures appear for a moment and vanish again ; a 
breath of fragrance and the glimmer of waxen tapers, mark 
some shrine of the Virgin or the saints, wliich is a special 
focus of devotion. If it is Sunday, the candles of the High 
Altar draw faint points of radiance from the gold and white 
robes of the officiating priests, and the voices of the choir 
break in distant echoes among the arches, with the shrill, 
sweet treble of the boys, like a tangle of bird notes rising 
high above. There is a smell of incense in the air, a pale 
odour of sanctity. As the eye grows more accustomed to 
the gloom, faint silhouettes of figures in the dark soutanes 
of priests, or purple cope of a bishop, relieve themselves 
from the deep, carved chairs surrounding the saixtuary, as 
they murmur responses to the prayers. The voice of the 
celebrant is wholly lost in the distance, or comes only like a 
sigh of wind through ])ine-trees. The congregation, kneel- 
ing where the light falls most strongly, is yet in a chiaro- 
scuro full of Eembrandt's dearest effects. A sense of awe 
takes possession of one. Could one ever reach the end of 
those mystic aisles ? Are those men, or the shadows of 
men, moving beyond ? From the darkness of those sombre 
arches are not the intrigue and the glory of past ages still 
ready to seize upon one in all its horror and enchantment ? 
Is it the sixteenth or the nineteenth century which is ruling 
the world ? No place I have ever entered, even those 



AMONG THE PARIS CHURCHES. 67 

wonderful carved galleries of the Louvre, filled with memories 
of Catherine de Medicis and the royal ghosts of history, 
haunted by the more than regal power of Mazarin and 
Eichelieu, animated by the stately and fateful presence of 
Marie Antoinette, with the bright head of her hapless 
darling by her side — has held the fascination of tradition 
so strongly about it as this grave and solemn cathedral. 
For has not this too borne witness before all that silent 
host ? Have not their arrogance and pride flashed in pass- 
ing splendour through these dark arches also ; and, let us 
hope, some moments of humility and earnestness lifted their 
prayers to God ? That strange, pompous, unnatural life could 
not have been wholly without divine instincts, strained though 
it was through so many subtleties. And saints as well as sin- 
ners have consecrated these altars ; the world's heroes, as well 
as its sycophants, have moved over these worn pavements. 
Why should not the higher influence be the strongest. 

None of the other churches exercise quite the same 
fascination. The Madeleine with its severe Greek elegance 
of outline, and its niched cordon of saintly figures to pre- 
serve it from the profanation of the outer world, is too 
modern to move the fancy greatly. An edifice begun only 
in the middle of the last century, and completed in the 
early portion of this, which would be respectable antiquity 
with us, is but a babe in long clothes among these elder 
representatives of the religious family. But it is still, as 
all babes should be, beautiful and interesting. The 
management of the light, wliich falls wholly from circular 
windows in the vaulted roof, is very effective. So are the 
marks of the bullets here and there in the walls ; reminis- 
cences of the three hundred communists shot within their 
shelter by the national troops during the outbreak follow- 
ing the Franco-Prussian war. The groups of statuary 
within the church are really fine : and the congregations 



68 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUEOPE. 

represent the wealth and fashion of Paris. The preachers 
connected with the parish would seem also to be the most 
eloquent and brilliant, for the sermons are always delivered 
with magnificent rhetorical effect. It is pretty to see the 
great flight of stone steps leading to the main entrance 
covered with children after their first communion ; the 
girls dressed like little brides, covered from head to foot 
with transparent veils, and shining in their snowy robes 
like a flock of white doves ; the boys like jack-daws with 
white waistcoats, and trousers, and black jackets. The 
sweet serious faces, and the sense of mingled devotion and 
importance in their manner, are charming, as they trip away 
surrounded by every available member of their family as 
a guard of honour. The Madeleine seems to be especially 
chosen for all ceremonies. It is scarcely possible that the 
ordinary happenings of its own parish could provide such 
a series of marriages and funerals as are daily to be seen 
issuing from its portals. It is difiicult to say which, as 
spectacles, are most imposing, the wedding processions, with 
white favours on the horses' heads and harness, white satin 
curtains and linings in the carriages, bouquets in the 
grooms' button-holes, and the dazzling figure of the Nouvelle 
Mariee as she moves among her bevy of attendant nymphs ; 
or the lugubrious trappings of the woeful vehicles, with 
mournful draperies of densest black shrouding even the poor 
quadrupeds, with their numberless major-domos in cocked 
hats and black staffs of office, and drivers in broad sashes 
and shining Wellington boots reaching nearly to the waist. 
Then such marshalling of flowers, such wreaths of tinsel and 
beads, such broad cloth-dressed mourning coaches, such 

"Windy suspirations of forced breath, 
And the dejected 'havior of the visage," 

make really an affecting spectacle for the senses, if not 



AMONG THE PARIS CHURCHES. 69 

for the heart. I am not sure but that for theatrical pro- 
perties the funeral excels all the other demonstration in 
effectiveness. 

But no matter what church one enters, there is sure to be 
somethinof to move the imagination which heretofore has 
been fed only on the prevalent stucco and gewgaw tawdriness 
of the new world. Under the dim arches one will come 
upon altars and pulpits by Viollet le Due and his brothers 
in genius, if not in fame ; windows as exquisite as the most 
delicate fancy and richest tints can make them ; frescoes 
and pictures from the hands of artists who have long made 
their country famous ; and groups of sculpture as rare in 
execution as in the events they commemorate. You may 
hear Gounod leading his Ave Maria at a vesper service, or 
Saint Saens presiding at the great organ through the mass. 
You will find great names that belong to history, whose 
relics repose under the flags you tread ; and everywhere 
reminiscences of honourable men and celebrated deeds fill 
the mind with retrospection. It is not what meets the 
eyes alone, beautiful though that may be, which moves the 
spirit. It is the power of the past, stronger in such scenes 
than any force of the present which holds one captive. 
Simply to walk under the roof of a building which repre- 
sents a thousand years of time, and which has looked upon 
the changing fortunes of kings and people from the days of 
Charlemagne to our own, is a sensation not to be despised 
or rejected. 

It would be small wonder if this entire nation were one of 
artists. So much to rouse the imagination is in the stones 
about one ; so many forms of grace and loveliness are there 
to lift out of the narrowness of commonplace association. 
But the more one sees of the lower classes in this city the 
less one is encouraged to look for such traits in them. 
There is a species of brutality, unconscious but real, in 



70 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

tbe faces of many of the poorer men which is very striking 
— a look of satisfaction with the lower pleasures of the 
moment, without a trace of sentiment or aspiration to soften 
the harshness of material life. It might be called an ex- 
pression made up of animal instinct, if one should attempt 
to classify it ; and their manners would belong to the 
same category. To women they are boorish, to strangers 
insolent, to horses cruel. This is all the more strange 
when contrasted with the easy and exquisite courtesy that 
is so prominent among the upper classes, or even with the 
vivacity and brightness of temperament among themselves. 
They look like people to whom even horror would bring 
delight, if the only alternative were calm and even action. 
We were struck one day with the unholy glee, the outburst 
of coarse humour with which one of the coachmen related to us 
some of the most terrible experiences daring the commune, 
when questioned about places in passing. He described 
with strong pantomimic effect the murder of the Archbishop 
and thirty others inside the prison of La Roquette, laughing 
immoderately over the way in which the pools of blood 
stained the flags of the yards and spurted upon the walls. 
His grins and leers and little clucks with the tongue would 
have been fiendish if the feeling which produced them had 
not been so impersonal. He was simply telling a good story, 
and desired to make it as vivid as possible ; but the human 
element of the case, its pathos and terror, affected him no 
more than if he were speaking of a struggle of insects on 
an ant-hill. At another time we had almost the same 
experience, in a description of the memorable struggles of 
the "Bloody week" of May 27, 1871, between the troops 
and Communists at P^re la Chaise. " It was a fine time ; 
firing here, firing there ; thousands killed ; all smoke and 
noise." One would have thought the remembrance, even 
eighteen years after, enough to soften the eyes and the 



AMOXG TilE PARIS CHURCHES. 71 

voice of any one who had lived through those terrible days ; 
but no, it was part of a drariia, comedy or tragedy, who 
cared ? Yesterday, when the Revolutionists celebrated the 
anniversary of this same week, marching with red banners 
draped in mourning and crowned with wreaths of flowers, 
the speeches and sentiments spoke neither of grief nor of 
glory. They were cries for more blood ; ferocious enthusiasm 
for some future day when anarchy and confusion should be 
again rampant. As the ranks reformed after the demon- 
stration, thunder began to growl from a dark cloud in the 
west. " Ha ! citizen ; doesn't that remind you of '7 I ? It 
might be the mitrailleuses." " It is a good omen. Let us 
pray that we will soon hear it nearer ; within our walls, 
rolling through our Boulevards." And I believe if this 
happened to-morrow many of the people would forget the 
dread and danger in their delight at the smell of gunpowder 
and the chance of a new sensation. If such recklessness 
sprang from some deep love of principle which prefers 
suffering to injustice it would be heroic ; where it comes 
only from the restlessness that craves excitement it is 
unnatural. * 

Of all the world what a city is this to have been so often 
drunk with the intoxication of blood and fury ! These 
broad, bright spaces which seem made for light and glad- 
ness ; the brilliant Boulevards ; the shining river winding 
in and out among palaces and gardens ; the thousand forms 
of interest and amusement which crowd the busy streets ! 
One's preferences are sorely tried. At times the New Paris^ 
with its magnificent sweeping vistas, its wealth of fountains 
and flowers, the irresistible wave of luxury and beauty 
which draws the sensuousness of humanity whither it Yii]\ 
seems bravest and most beautiful. One would reioaain 
for ever in that region of loveliness about the Bois, the- Arc 
de Triomphe, and those Elysian Fields which are lovelier than 



72 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

any in which the Deities of old ever lingered. But the scene 
changes and now it is that wonderful world of Old Paris which 
takes possession of the fancy. One stands by the river front of 
the Louvre, where every corridor and window frames the glory 
of the past, and looks across the grey arches of Pont Neuf 
towards the Isle de St. Louis and the towers of Notre Dame. 
The golden spires of La Sainte Chapelle are glowing in the 
warm June sunshine, every street and lane about is full of 
some reminiscence of past glory ; even the names recall the 
old days when the magnificence of the Grand Monarque 
was the wonder of a dazzled world. The touch of the 
present adorns without changing it, as the bouquets of the 
flower-girl yonder cover the old wall of the embankment on 
which they rest. Every spire and gable about one is 
softened to the eye by the dust of centuries ; and something 
deeper than even the most exquisite satisfaction of sense 
thrills heart and soul with its power. Is it not here after 
all that one is nearest the real heart of the city. Let us 
thank kind fortune that one can decide in favour of either, 
or of both. 



CHAPTEH IX. 

THE PARISIAN AT HOME. 

It is not strange ttiat the true Parisian loves his Paris, and 
pines for it even when fate carries him no farther away 
than the provinces of France. If more unkind circumstance 
buffets him against the shores of a land conservative as 
England, or immature as America, instead of the bright, 
responsive world upon which he has become dependent, 
small wonder that he turns from the allurements they offer 
with indifference. He has inherited by nature the tempera- 
ment a certain brilliant Bostonian attained by grace ; he 
can better do without the comforts of life than its luxuries. 
He can better accept the passing straits of simple depriva- 
tion than miss the glamour of those brilliant streets, that 
pomp and circumstance of external magnificence, that 
effervescent bubble of excitement which rises so continuously 
here to the brim of the cup of life. He misses being 
amused without effort, and having the stage scenery shifted 
constantly before him for the comedy of humanity. He 
misses the ease of movement which makes friction unob- 
servable, and the grace of manner which makes society a 
delight. There may be greater fortune and brighter fame 
to be won in the distant land, but the effort to seize them 
is too heroic. Better stay poor in Paris than be rich 
elsewhere. If he cannot be in the swim, at least he can 
stand on the banks and watch. He can catch the scent of 
the flowers, he can hear the echoes of the music, he can 

73 



74 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

nonnt the flying figures as they dance. And he can feel him- 
self part of it all. The great, glittering, beautiful city is his 
for delight; his to be fond of; his to be proud of. He does 
not want your heavy and costly dinner ; the petits plats of 
the gay restaurant served under the trees in the open air 
suit his appetite and his purse. He does not appreciate 
the sad and tedious enjoyment of your pompous entertain- 
ments ; here are the cafes, the theatres, the drive on the 
Boulevard or in the Bois, to be had for a song. " Vanity 
of vanities ; there is nothing new under the sun " of the 
rest of the world. In Paris there is nothing old. It is 
for ever swept out of sight by some fresh wave of novelty. 
Why should he not be satisfied ? And he is. 

Not that the Parisian is obliged to do without comforts ; 
far fro!n it. A few of the mechanical contrivances on 
which we pride ourselves he does not know ; and it is a 
question whether ignorance is not bliss with him. So many 
of our modern improvements are delusions and snares. 
They close some little chink of immediate discomfort and 
open a wide door through which permanent distress enters. 
Our systems of heating and our water-supply are both more 
ingenious and plentiful than those abroad ; but when one 
reflects on the disadvantages of a kiln-dried atmosphere 
through six months of the year, and the fatal influence of 
sewer gas in our city houses, the gain is mere apparent 
than real. Even in these respects, as well as in almost 
every other material advantage, the Frenchman outranks 
us. He has choice of two prices for his omnibus. He is 
never harassed by being forced to stand during transit, or 
torn limb from limb in trying to force egress or ingress 
through the compact crowd massed in the car. Each 
vehicle has its printed regulation number of places ; each 
of these places is divided by a light rail from the next, and, 
fco make assurance doubly sure, a commissionaire at each 



THE PAKISTAN AT HOME. 75 

of tlie regular halting stations on the route sees practically 
that only the number required to fill the vacant spaces 
enters. There is no confusion, no pushing, and tearing, 
or growling, or swearing. The person who arrives earliest 
at the station receives a numbered slip, which gives him 
the first right to enter the coming omnibus ; the next 
receives the second, and so on. It is first come first 
served, and the order is never broken. No doubt there 
is some annoyance when one is in a great hurry; but one 
is so rarely in a great hurry in this wise city. It is one 
of the evil factors eliminated from life. There is so much 
to absorb, to interest, to amuse ; why should one allow the 
perverse imp of worry and haste to gain possession of his 
more reasonable faculties ? So the tired man or woman 
is always sure that his omnibus trip at least will be rest 
and refreshment, especially if he has the courage of his 
convictions and mounts on top. For there by far the best 
panorama of the city streets is obtained. The average 
carriage is too low to allow any sweep of vision. The 
horse's head in front, or the passing fiacre at the side, 
hems one in as closely as a moving cul de sac; but the 
second story of a tramway or an omnibus is perfect. Un- 
less one's vanity is particularly rampant there is no loss 
of dignity involved. Monsieur in the last degree of 
Parisian elegance, Madame in lace and velvet, occupy their 
places with perfect decorum. He can puff his cigarette 
without poisoning the lower air ; she can trip up and down 
the comfortable winding staircase without showing more 
than a glimpse of ankle or embroidered skirt. (I am not 
quite sure but that a true Parisienne prefers this to show- 
ing no glimpse at all.) As for Mademoiselle, she is never 
seen inside or out, above or below, without mamma, papa, 
or the maid as a bodyguard. 

He has — we are still following in the wake of our 



76 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

Parisian — the comfort, summer and winter, of infinitely 
clean streets, which are a delight to the senses in every- 
way. Each morning after the sweeping is done, water 
pipes are opened directly above the gutters and a full, flow- 
ing stream is turned on which washes every sign of impurity 
down through the openings leading to the upper system 
of sewers. A few dexterous sweeps of the long brooms 
help any lingering dirt to find its way into the channel 
prepared for it ; and for some time after a rivulet of bright 
water ripples over the clean pavement with the pleasant 
tinkle of running brooks. It is the most aesthetic mode of 
street cleaning in existence. Then he has a total exemp- 
tion from dust. Over the perfect roadways and wide 
cemented sidewalks there is exercised the most constant 
care. Watering-carts pass in the morning, and at all 
hours of the day the queer street hose, mounted like a 
centipede on small wheels at each joint, is used to keep 
the upper surface fresh without being muddy. It is not 
done once and for all ; if necessity requires it twice, it is 
sprinkled twice ; if ten times, it is sprinkled ten. There 
are always plenty of men in the city's service. The idea 
of the local government, at least, seems to be to employ as 
many, instead of as few, as possible in the State's service. 
We heard one day, as a reason given for not hiring type- 
writing machines in the municipal clerk's office, that a few 
men could then do the work which now required two 
hundred. This is in keeping with the paternal policy the 
republic maintains towards its sons, partly no doubt from 
a feeling of its efficacy in government, partly from pride. 
In things that concern the beauty of the city there is no 
stint in appropriations. Departments are not put off with 
a miserly proportion of their demands for working capital ; 
and no fraudulent scheme of economy to further the future 
campaigning policy of the ruling powers is allowed to 



THE PARISIAN AT HOME. "]"] 

interfere with the order, the cleanliness, or the educational 
projects of town or country. Young as the French republic 
is, it has already learned some lessons that older pupils 
in the same school find it difficult to commit to memory. 
Then he has about him that alert, brilliant vivacity that 
seems to belong to the very air of the city, and be as much 
a characteristic of its people as any other mental or physical 
trait. The glancing eye, the speaking gesture, the flashing 
smile, the responsive temperament, the swiftness of compre- 
hension, that appears to give and receive impressions by a 
look or a motion, make a by-play full of sensation and 
novelty, upon which he unconsciously depends for enter- 
tainment. He may be no more — he may even be less 
deeply interested in the actual occupation which makes his 
life ; but how full of sensation and novelty is tlie routine 
of existence ! What a scintillant and electric intelligence 
takes the place of the heavy, slow comprehension which 
prevails in other localities ! And where else but in Paris 
can he make good its loss ? 

The habits of life, so far as regards eating, are better 
with our Parisian. England and America both transgress, 
one in the quantity, the other in the quality, of food. The 
Briton feeds too heavily. He becomes plethoric and beefy. 
The exquisite rose-tints on his daughter's cheek turn to 
patches of harsh colour on the face of his wife ; and his 
own rubicund visage suggests chronic congestion. Not con- 
tent with heavy meals morning, noon, and evening, there is 
a night supper, more or less profuse according as the good 
sense of the individual bends to or wrestles with custom. 
There is a good deal of tea drunk, and coffee, and a vast 
amount of strong ale and porter ; which all serve to induce 
more appetite for solid food. A man can eat two slices of 
bread and meat with a glass or a cup of liquid accompaniment, 
where he could use but one without. So the effect is apt 



78 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

to be excess ; certain excess over the necessary amount of 
nourishment, probable excess over the wholesome point. In 
America, it is not the amount — although our women, as a 
rule, with their sedentary habits use too much, especially at 
breakfast time — but the kind of food, which makes the 
national deadly sin. Pies, cake, and hot biscuit, fried meat 
and doughnuts, pickles and preserves, bleach instead of 
reddening the blood ; and except in some few districts we 
are a nation of anemics. If the unfortunate stomach can 
sustain the injury done it by lack of proper nourishment, it 
succumbs to the habit of bolting. Meal time is a succes- 
sion of gulps and swallows grudgingly snatched from time 
devoted to the routine of labour, as hurried as nervous haste 
and the preoccupation of business cares can make it, and 
wholly unavailing for ordinary purposes of mastication. 
The unused teeth decay, and ruined digestion revenges 
itself in blanched cheeks, thinned hair, and general prostra- 
tion. If this is too vivid a picture for the better knowledge 
and higher civilisation of our cities, it certainly is not for 
the country districts, and it is these last which produce the 
people. Towns may be the nerve ganglions, but the country 
supplies their forces. 

The Parisian has changed all this. He begins the day 
with the sliuhtest possible breakfast, leaving mind and 
body cleared, not weighted, for action. After three or 
four hours' work has induced a healthy demand for food, 
there comes a dainty and plentiful meal ; two or three 
courses of meat, with a few vegetables, an omelette, bread 
and butter, fresh or prepared fruit. This answers to our 
lunch, and is usually served at noon or one o'clock. Six 
hours' later comes dinner. Soup always, often fish, four or 
five delicate and inviting preparations of meat, with a slight 
accompaniment of vegetables and some delicious sauce ; a 
sweet, and a dessert of fruit and cheese form the points of 



THE PARISIAN AT HOME. 79 

this principal meal. Poorer families will have less, richer 
people will offer greater variety ; but ordinarily this scheme 
very slightly modified will represent the daily routine of 
a Parisian household. For rich or poor the evening brings 
relaxation and social intercourse ; to the one, in the dissi- 
pations and excitements of fashionable life; to the other, 
on the broad sidewalks of the boulevards, the animated 
brilliancy of the great Squares, the river embankments, the 
innumerable public resorts planned for the people. What 
wonder that life seems more a holiday here than in other 
places ! The body remains alert and active ; the power 
of enjoyment is unimpaired ; the natural temperament does 
not suffer unnatural strain or twist. There is a pleasant 
mental as well as physical equipoise. It is a very grave 
question for those who desire to see temperance advanced 
— genuine temperance, and not some hobby of prohibition 
or total abstinence — whether the general use of the very 
light wines which are customary here would not be a solu- 
tion of the difficulty. Our poor labouring people are 
intemperate in the use of bad tea and coffee, as well as of 
alcohol. The French workman takes his small glass of 
simple claret wath his slice of bread and bit of meat. 
Physicians know that a large proportion of the physical 
ailments which come under their notice in America are 
aggravated even when they are not caused, by the daily 
bowls three times multiplied of weak and sloppy fluid 
which the labouring classes with us depend upon. In 
France there is nothing of the sort ; and I am strongly 
inclined to believe it is a moral as well as a material 
blessing that the small quantity of wine takes its place. 
The entire plan of the French dietary system is better 
than ours ; only that for the mass of Americans, accustomed 
to evenings at home and early bedtime, the order of the 
two principal meals might be reversed. Dinner could 



8o A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

come at midday ; lunch or supper toward evening. For 
the people abroad it is quite right as it is. Their evenings do 
not end before midnight, and they are filled with such move- 
ment and action as are in themselves helps to digestion. 

These are some of the advantages the Parisian has over 
us in wliat might truly be called comforts. In the matter 
of luxuries and amusements, he leads the civilised world. 
Nowhere is entertainment of the senses and delectation of 
the mind so wonderfully catered for as in that marvellous 
city. Tlie Government has lavished care, time, money, and 
the most exquisite taste upon the treasures without and 
within its public places, and then laid the keys where the 
lowliest as well as the loftiest hand can reach and use them. 
No wonder the pang of separation for one who is obliged 
to leave them is like the pang of death. 



CHAPTER X. 

THE WOMEN OF PARIS. 

If Paris is said to be the perfection of comfort, or nearly 
so, for man-kind, what is to be said of it for woman ? Let 
us see. Taking first the profession which is still the most 
popular with the sex, in spite of the modern clamour for 
rights and opportunities, we shall find that the housewife has 
more amenities allowed in the carrying out of her ordinary 
duties than in most other portions of the world. The custom 
of having an apartment in a large hotel, instead of occupy- 
ing the whole of a small house, lessens many of the trials of 
housekeeping. It can scarcely be necessary at this time to 
remind the reader that the French terms hotel and apart- 
ments are used in a sense quite unlike our own. Every large 
house built in many stories is a hotel, public or private ; an 
apartment is one of the suites of rooms of which it is com- 
posed, with all the conveniences for housekeeping on what- 
ever scale of size or luxury the purse permits or the taste 
dictates. It is almost precisely our system of flats — only 
that here it is universal. The concierge or janitor, on the 
lower floor, sees all visitors who enter the broad courtyard 
gate; attends to the halls, stairways, steps, windows, yard, 
and outside of the house ; receives messages and bundles, calls 
a carriage, and does many of the simpler duties which relieve 
greatly the pressure of care in household arrangements. The 
washing is always done out of the house. The blanchisseuse, 

who comes for and returns it, lives usually out of town in 

8i p 



82 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

some of the pretty suburbs, which give one assurance of at 
least plenty of fresh air in drying. There are numberless 
laundries through the city itself and in the great boats lining 
the banks of the Seine ; but these are not so much patronised 
by families as by lodgers or boarders. So the damp cloud 
of washing-day disappears from the horizon of home. There 
is no baking of bread, cake, or pastry in the family kitchen. 
All that is relegated — as it should ever be — to professional 
bakers, who are the most admirable specialists. No one 
who has tasted the delicious little rolls which come with the 
morning coffee, or the sweet and wholesome long loaf which 
is cut in thick pieces for breakfast and dinner, will doubt 
the wisdom of thus replacing the so often wretched bread of 
America — left as it is to the half-trained judgment of the 
general servant. To be always perfectly sure of the bread 
and butter is to have won half the battle in providing a table. 
Here the butter, unsalted, and fashioned in dainty shapes, is 
as delicious as the rolls, and as invariable. There would be 
no hardship in making the principal part of the two daily 
meals, as well as the whole of the morning lunch, upon 
them. 

The housekeeper and the cook also get rid of preparing 
the desserts. Nine times out of ten these are taken from 
the counters of the Patissier. The waiter in his full dress, the 
maid in her tidy cap and apron, or the mistress, if she is 
her own womau-of- all- work, looks about and chooses her 
tarts, or maccaroons, or eclairs, or whatever other form may 
be fancied, just before dinner is served, so that each article 
is as fresh and as good as it can possibly be. This, with a 
little fruit or conserve, is all ; but any one who knows the 
variety and excellence of the cakes and pastry here knows 
that it is enough to satisfy the most exacting taste. The 
omnipresent salad, made from lettuce, or any similar green 
vegetable, and dressed simply with oil and vinegar, forms 



THE WOMEN OF PARIS. 83 

always one course, and to that extent helps to make matters 
easier. The morning cup of coffee, without the addition of 
anything save its accompanying roll, leaves the entire fore- 
noon of each day free from preparations and clearing up of 
dishes — free, too, from the " planning " which becomes such 
weariness in the effort to devise new forms and combinations 
at home. The city is so exquisitely free from dust that there 
is no need of constant endeavour to prevent the accumulation 
of dirt, and so far as we have been able to find there is no 
spasmodic madness of spring and fall cleaning. The daily 
brushing, sweeping, and washing is found sufficient for 
daily needs ; so that housekeeping, instead of being a fetish 
before whose altar blood and brains, nerves and strength 
are sacrificed, becomes rather a gracious and friendly power, 
whose worship is easy, and burden light. It is a kindly 
divinity instead of a dreaded juggernaut. Those who sneer 
at a people who have in their language no word for home 
should look rather at the spirit than the letter. They 
should note how the tiniest, poorest room, as well as the 
richest salon, is made less harsh by some comeliness, or 
neat curtain, or some cheap adorning ; how the tradesman's 
wife and the labourer's bring back from their frugal morning 
marketing a blossoming spray or a green branch to lend its 
beauty to the one living room ; how constantly the children, 
little and big, except in the case of the ultra fashionables, 
are by the side of the parents. They should see on after- 
noon or evening, Sunday or fete, according as occupation or 
circumstance allows, the family parties on the grass of the 
squares, in the free galleries, under the trees of the suburbs, 
crowding omnibuses or river boats— always happy, and 
always together. The daughter of thirteen is not enjoying 
herself with other young people ; the son of fifteen is not 
learning the vapidness of life with a similar group of cigarette- 
smoking youths of his own age, with no watchful or prudeDt 



84 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

eye to offer remonstrance or suggestion. The cigarette is 
smoked, but it, like everything else, is en famille^ and it 
would be extremely difficult for a conscientious observer to 
say that he has ever noticed that mirth was less hearty or 
youthful pleasure more hampered by this union of amuse- 
ments and interests among fathers, mothers, and children. 
On the contrary, every face is keenly responsive. 

As a natural consequence of this system the mother of 
the family finds more time at her command in which to 
associate herself with husband and sons. Among the poorer 
classes she employs this in sharing their labour : you find 
her sweeping crossings, sharing his duties as concierge or 
porter, by iiis side with some lighter portion of the work at 
the shoemaker's bench, the butcher's block, the tailor's table. 
Grown somewhat more prosperous, she takes her place be- 
hind the railing of the office desk and enters heartily into 
every interest connected with the business. I do not know 
whether French law recognises this same equality of partner- 
ship between the woman and the man, but most certainly 
French society does. One result is that, when sickness 
comes, or reverse, or death, the wife or mother is not the 
aimless, despondent, helpless being she is among us. At 
least her hands remain full, if her heart is empty of happi- 
ness. The consciousness of resource, the knowledge that she 
has the power to defy adversity, sustains and strengthens, 
and she is safely tided over the emergency. It is quite 
common to see in this way even large business interests 
continued by the wife alone or with her sons, or by the 
sister in connection with or succeeding her brothers. With 
us it is extremely rare, and many of the saddest changes in 
social position come from the absolute inability and igno- 
rance of the woman which prevents her from grasping an 
opportunity. This is a phase in the rights and privileges 
of the sex which has been sadly neglected elsewhere, but 



THE WOMEN OF PARIS. 85 

which has been developed here with great success and 
mutual satisfaction, without any noise or confusion. What- 
ever may have caused a continuance of the custom, its in- 
ception at least must have been in large measure owing 
to the simplicity of arrangement which makes the actual 
management of the home so much easier an affair than 
with us. 

Among the upper classes, the carrying out of the same 
principle gives the wife a proportionally large amount of 
time for other duties. If she is inclined to be charitable, or 
studious, or artistic, or worldly, there is plenty of oppor- 
tunity to follow her bent. So we find the lady of fashion 
on the topmost round of the ladder of folly ; the society 
leader gathering into her salons the wit, the wisdom, the 
politics, or the cabals of the capital ; the student pushing 
thought and investigation into regions as yet remote, keeping 
pace with the masculine strength which usually leads the 
way ; the artist surrounded by an atmosphere equal to that 
of any centre of impulse on the globe, with ancient tradition 
and modern achievement to spur her on. If there were 
forty different temperaments, each requiring one of forty 
different atmospheres in which to develop the highest 
possibilities, they might all find alike their moral and 
mental latitudes here. It is like one of those Alpine 
passes, down which in a few hours one travels through each 
grade of climate from the Arctic to the Tropics — only that 
this is of the spiritual order, while that belongs to the 
temporal. Of course, it is doubtful whether in the con- 
fusion of gaieties and interests, the average woman is not 
likely to allow herself to drift into the ways of least resist- 
ance, and to be simply wholesome and happy instead of 
having ideals and attempting a career. At the same time 
it is at least equally doubtful whether the average woman 
is not a greater success in this role than in any other, and 



86 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

whether it would not be quite as well for the world at large 
that she should forego any attempt at results which she can 
only fail to accomplish. 

As for children, Paris comes as near paradise as earthly 
imagination can reach in fancying it. Imprimis, they are 
properly dressed here for the purposes of innocent amuse- 
ment. The universal blouse of blue or black cotton covers 
each little form from fear of dust or soil, and leaves the dear, 
beautiful, dirty world free to dig and carouse in. They 
can spoil nothing. The quiet bonne or bright-eyed mother 
knits or embroiders, or gossips tranquilly with her neighbour, 
without that incessant chorus of nagging, half warning, half 
reproach, which spoils the pastime of our own darlings. At 
school, at play, at home, except during meal times, this 
blessed long apron, which covers such a multitude of virtues, 
does its beneficent work ; and every child-loving heart is 
glad at sight thereof. To be sure, there are times, gala 
days and festivals, when it is laid aside, and Marie and 
Petite Pierre shine out in all the glory of baby finery ; but 
this is only like the bon-bon. The other is the daily bread. 

To one who loves children for their own sweet sake, there 
is much to be thankful for in the hint of absolute simplicity 
such attire as this gives. American babies are adorable ; 
but they are as fragile as dolls, and almost as artificial in 
the silks and plushes, ribbons and laces of modern aesthetic 
requirement. Our young girls are much better dressed 
than in the old days when our volatile Gallic cousins com- 
plained, that no one walking behind an American maiden 
and her grandmother, could tell by the material or style of 
dress and decoration, which was which. There is a very 
delicate and exquisite taste shown in later years in the 
costuming of this younger portion of society. But the 
children are still overweighted with us, and the French 
apron offers the shortest way out of the dilemma. 



THE WOMEN OF PARIS. 87 

Then there are the numberless localities prepared for their 
especial benefit. Scarcely a street of any size that has not 
its bit of flower-guarded, tree-shaded playground for the 
little creatures in its vicinity; not a single great pleasure 
ground that has not its ample proportion laid aside for the 
uses of this dear contingent. Gardens of the Luxembourg 
and Tuileries, the Champs-Elys^es, enclosures of fountains, 
the lovely old church-yards, squares, places, courtyards, the 
Jardins des Plantes and d'Acclimatation, all have the chil- 
dren's portion jealously guarded for them from encroach- 
ment by the elders. Indeed, in most they are the absolute 
monarchs, and reign where and how they please. The 
beautiful Bois de Boulogne is an entire fairyland in itself. 
There are no lawns decorated with demands to keep off; 
there are no artificial beauties, which, like a painted cheek, 
will not bear the healthy ravages of natural causes without 
losing its sleek perfection ; so the boisterous, roaming, happy 
hearts have it all their own way ; to sail boats in the lakes, 
to run up hill and down dale, to tumble in the soft green of 
the long grass, to pick wild flowers until their small fingers 
weary of sweet labour, to do everything noisy and glad. 
But they are not noisy. The world goes so well with them 
that they can afford to be quiet. 

When it comes to amusements of another kind, those to be 
paid for, and only enjoyed occasionally, they are still catered 
for on the same lavish basis. Here is the Hippodrome ; a 
perennial circus, in a glass tent as large as three of Bar- 
nums, lifted eighty feet high, and showing day and night 
the most wonderful things that skill and daring can accom- 
plish. Here are its bands of small jockeys in full hunting 
costume, mounted on ponies that would make the delight of 
any pair of eyes that ever twinkled in a boy's head, parad- 
ing the streets every afternoon. Here in the Zoological 
Gardens is every animal that walks the earth, harnessed to^ 



88 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

triumphal chariots, which can be ridden for five cents, or 
stalking about the enclosures of their palaces, which can be 
seen for nothing. Here is Le Pays des Fees, where veri- 
table fairyland waits behind the high walls, and where any 
child can walk through the enchanted gates into the regions 
where the Sleeping Beauty waits among the roses, where 
Hop o' my Thumb wins his victorious way through watch- 
ful cats and spiders, where Jack the Giant-killer and his 
namesake of the Beanstalk go through the magic of their 
traditional adventures, and where the two sisters drop jewels 
or toads from their lips as they wander by the fairy paths. 
Was there ever such delight to be bought before by pennies ? 
And here again is the Gingerbread Fair, with its acres and 
acres of lanes covered with merry-go-rounds, captive balloons, 
flying horses, peep shows, mechanical toys, and every form 
of Cheap John that ever won a centime from a boy's or girl's 
pocket, with everywhere gingerbread adorned with comfits 
and frosting, painted with colours, stuffed with raisins, 
sbowered with nuts, streaked with citron, hot with spices, 
embroidered with tinsel, shining in gold and silver — so 
cheap ! so cheap ! So if Paris is not the children's paradise, 
there is no other reason than perversity. Not to mention 
eternal military bands, and endless files of shining, helmeted 
soldiers, and intermittent eruptions of flags and illumina- 
tions, which for one reason or another are constantly making 
day and night brighter than they are in the rest of the 
world. 

Next to the children, the horse is the principal animal 
of Paris. He dominates the city much as the camel does 
Cairo. Off the side-walk there is no right which he and 
his appendage, the coachman, are at all bound to respect. 
Between his rampant aggressiveness as he drags about 
the 15,000 public and 20,000 private carriages, the brutal 
indifference of his driver, and the noiseless pavements of the 



THE WOMEN OF PARIS. 89 

broad streets, it is a miracle that in the busy portion of the 
day one ever gets across any of these wide thoroughfares 
alive. That one does is simply an intervention of benign 
Providence. Such reckless, dare-devil driving, such sudden 
sweeps and turns, such perfect indifference to the life and 
limbs of the poor, struggling, human mob, which is obliged 
to dodge and dash, and tremble between this pandemonium 
of horse flesh, it is impossible to imagine. There are raised 
stone platforms, erected at distances of thirty feet or so, to 
aid this fliofht for life, and the breathless hunted creature 
hurls himself upon these as a shipwrecked sailor would 
upon the last plank he sees floating by. There is no other 
security between him and annihilation. As for a woman ! 
She looks up and down, before and behind; she clutches 
her skirts with a firm and nervous grasp ; she makes a dash, 
only to be driven back before she has advanced five feet. 
She draws a long breath, tightens her hold, breathes a 
prayer, and tries again. Vain endeavour. She is under 
the nostrils of a fiery steed, that has spun around some 
unseen corner before her petticoats have left the curbstone. 
The third time despair and humiliation have made her 
furious ; there is a dangerous gleam in her eye ; she gives 
one glance of mingled wrath and defiance at a miscreant 
who is galloping toward her, and actually paralyses him into 
an instant's pause. lo triumphe I The next second she 
has reached the first halting-place. It is only a third of 
the distance, but she is there. A pause of a few minutes — 
well bespattered meantime by mud from flying hoofs. Again 
a hitch of the skirts ; again a vain essay ; another and 
another; then at last a new spasm of grim determination, 
a new mad dash into the gulf of difficulty and danger, a new 
access of moral courage as she mounts the second vestibule. 
This time Fate is kind ; or it recognises beforehand that 
feminine diplomacy will finally be too much for it, and 



90 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

recedes from the unequal conquest. There are only four 
cabs, coining from four different directions, and a single 
cavalry officer bearing down upon her. She gives her 
head a toss ! The harbour is in sight now, and she will 
reach it. She leaps in front of one, behind another, dodges 
a third by a splendid gymnastic coup de Mdtre^ the fourth 
turns up a side street, and the soldier pauses to salute a 
friend on the side-walk. 

Glory to Allah! Hail to the Queen! She has passed 
the Eubicon ! She has crossed the Champs-Elys^es at four 
of the clock on a fine day, and she lives to tell it. But next 
time, let it be well understood, she takes a carriage. You 
think this is too highly coloured. Very well, Madame ; 
wait until you try it yourself 



CHAPTER XI. 
THE WAYS OF THE FRENCH WORLD. 

Such a wise city ! And sucli a foolish one ! At a little 
dinner given yesterday to Jules Simon, there were around the 
table Barthelemy St. Hilaire, le Due d'Aumale, Alexander 
Dumas, De Lesseps, Mezieres, Delibes, Gounod, and Meis- 
sonnier. Think what these men represent in the world of 
art, of music, and of letters. Yet the same city which they 
honour with their names and lives, goes en masse to the Wild 
West Show of Buffalo Bill, supposing that it is paying a 
compliment to the United States ; and its highest officials 
from the President down, assist at the opening fete of this 
sublimated circus, as if by so doing they were honouring the 
sister republic, I am quite positive many of them con- 
sidered the entire exhibition, bucking bronchos, cowboys, wild 
steers and all, as a representation of life in America, and 
the fringed leggings and red shirts of the dare-devil riders 
as the national dress. Indeed, more than one belle Marquise 
was heard to confide to her neighbour that the American 
costume was very picturesque. And here at the hotel, 
English as well as Frenchmen, recounting the novelties 
and wonders of the exhibition to their neighbours, speak 
of it as an " exact reproduction of life and manners in 
America." They think we put on civilisation only for 
travelling purposes. 

No wonder the Parisians speak of being ^' tipsy " with 
the Boulevards. It is absolutely a species of intoxication 

91 



92 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IX EUROPE. 

The life which whirls through them is so affluent in novelty, 
the interests they excite so various, that there is a sensation 
of dizziness and elation in the contemplation. One goes 
home tired, worn out with the swift passage of fancy from 
one novelty to the other ; but with the first feeling of rest 
comes the desire for more. It is not like the incessant, 
tremendous maelstrom of London, which draws one in some 
greater or less degree toward a participation in the activity 
surging about ; it is a milder and kindlier sentiment which 
admits the relaxation of observation without being driven 
to take part. One looks as one would at a picture — and 
what else is it ? A movable picture ; with a frame of soft 
shining, pale blue sky, in which one tableau succeeds another 
indefinitely. At one moment it is a company of mounted 
cuirassiers, in their shining helmets and long black plumes, 
coming under the great arches of the Louvre, and galloping 
away over Pont Neuf toward the towers of Notre Dame. 
The next it is some improvised market of fruit and produce, 
with picturesque hucksters in every variety of peasant cap 
and blouse, shrilling their wares under the trees like an 
encampment of gipsies. The next, one of the lovely gardens, 
within whose quiet paths flowers and children bloom, while 
pale statues and moss-draped monuments soften the glare 
of light and colour with the shadows of the centuries they 
have seen pass. Or the facade of some great public building, 
any one of a hundred of which, scattered as they are here 
among the intricacies of the narrow streets, would make one 
of our poor, wealthy American cities richer than all its 
millions. What it must be to live always where one can 
turn into the dim, cloistered mystery of Notre Dame, the 
jewel-like beauty of the Sainte Chapelle, glowing from floor 
to roof with that wonderful splendour of glass, which has no 
break save the carved spandrils of the Gothic arches that 
hold it ; the dim, grand galleries of the Louvre, filled with 



THE WAYS OF THE FKENCH WORLD. 93 

the treasures which genius has left as heritage to time ; the 
silent alleys of Pere la Chaise, rich in the relics and haunted 
by the memory of the immortals ! Among such surround- 
ings, the present assumes its proper proportions. It is no 
longer the all-powerful and universal, it is but a point in a 
long vista, resplendent with such grandeur that it will take 
every force of nature and grace not to shame its ancestry 
of glory. It would be hard for such a world as this to 
become over-confident. Its own past is too tremendous an 
adversary. 

To a stranger this charm is so strong that it is difficult 
to pierce it with the lance of reality. It takes something 
infinitely pathetic — like the little white coffin that passed 
to-day, borne under its wreath of flowers by two men, while 
one solitary mourner with bare, bent head walked behind — 
to bring the daily happenings of life here out of the realms 
of imagination and into those of the heart. Are these 
boisterous, showy joys, these heralded and uniformed sorrows 
real ? Or is it all but a phase of the passing pageant in- 
troduced to give variety to the dramatic formula ? If the 
visitor to whom these reflections come will get up some 
morning early, very early, many of these problems will solve 
themselves. It is a very real world which occupies the 
streets of Paris before the day of the ordinary inhabitant 
begins. Before seven o'clock the great markets have finished 
the largest portion of their buying and selling ; the streets 
have been swept into that marvellous state of cleanliness 
that suggests dust-brushes and dust-pans as well as brooms ; 
the different carts in the city's service have passed through 
lane and highway cleansing the unavoidable soil and scum 
which rise daily to the surface in the ways and means of 
life among half a million people. The fresh vegetables and 
flowers, brought in by countless country w^aggons, have left 
the streets faintly perfumed with spicy smells of growing 



94 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

green, freshly cut and dew-laden ; milk-carts have made 
their noiseless rounds ; coal and wood and any other form of 
bulk that could encumber the sidewalk have been delivered ; 
the dirty work of that good housekeeper, Paris, is over 
for another twenty-four hours. What has seemed to your 
lazy eyes, opening ordinarily to the eight or nine o'clock 
sunshine, as a miracle, is simply a minute and exact division 
of labour, which has accomplished its wonders by perfectly 
natural means. You will see the waggons of tlie Board of 
Health lifting the heavy baskets of refuse by means of little 
windlasses at the back, and wish that the simple invention 
might be adopted by your own beloved but stupid country, 
where men are still obliged to hoist heavy barrels of dust 
and ashes by main force into tip carts higher than their 
heads. You will see water used like a flood to wash away 
every impurity ; and thrifty housewives buying from peri- 
patetic venders who carry loads of asparagus, of lettuce, or 
of carrots, daintily packed in fresh-cut grass, on their baclsS. 
You will hear the pipes of Pan, which have woven them- 
selves into your morning dreams every day for month?, 
coming up the street; and behold the gentle shepherd 
who plays upon them, leading his goats to milk at your 
door, into your own silver porringer, so that there shall be 
no fear of adulteration. What a pastoral symphony, with 
the sharp little click of the goats' hoofs beating time on 
the city pavement! 

It gives one some insight into the enormous activity 
which underlies the apparent carelessness of French life, to 
see with what energy and satisfaction the smallest aflairs 
are managed. One would scarce suppose the revenue 
obtained from the milk of five goats, driven each morning 
at dawn from a point miles outside the city, could be suffi- 
cient to satisfy the ambition of the man who sturdily travels 
before them. Yet it is the interest in just such small 



THE WAYS OF THE FRENCH WORLD. 95 

industries as this wliicli lias placed the country in that 
state of general prosperity which enabled it to overcome the 
cruel prostration following the Franco-Prussian War with 
such marvellous celerity. It was among farmers owning 
garden patches of half an acre, or a little flock of goats or 
sheep, or a few cows only, that the indemnity of millions 
demanded by the German Government was mainly taken up, 
without being obliged to call upon strangers for any part of 
the loan. No profit is too small, no occupation too lowly 
or minute to bring them happiness and honest pride in its 
pursuit ; and so well have they comprehended Micawber's 
immortal formula of income and expenditure, that there is 
always a balance in their favour at the end of the year. 
Our people would scorn such slow and small profit, so that 
the weight of their indifference would soon begin to roll 
tliem and their affairs down-hill. These put such an earnest 
shoulder to the wheel that the burden must go up, and they 
with it. We have not yet learned liow to distinguish the 
petty vexation of discontent, from the divine unrest of pro- 
gress. We are afraid to do the small thing well, for fear 
we may thereby be induced to remain at it and lose an 
opportunity for some larger opening. The workman and 
workwoman here are as proud of the blouse and apron 
which are their marks of rank, as the gentleman is of his 
[•edigree, and the lady of her salon. Their state is to them 
just as honourable. 

The temper of the people, in regard to their rulers, may 
be gathered from this jeu cC esprit, which has lately had a 
wide circulation. 

" Carnot, montrez vous niagnatiime 
Pour ce Perrin ! Son attentat 
N'etait que I'ombre d'un crime 
Coiitre un ombre de chef d'etat." 

Which may be freely translated thus — Perrin being re- 



96 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

membered as the name of the unfortunate idiot who attempted 
to fire at President Carnot on the day of the opening fete 
of the Exposition — 

" Carnot, be gracious ! For this time 
Pardon Perrin. His fault in brief 
Was but the shadow of a crime, 
Auainst a shadow of a chief." 



CHAPTER XII. 

THE INVALIDES AND PERE LA CHAISE. 

Who that has ever tbriiled at the name and fame of 
Bonaparte — and in spite of Carlyle's thunderbolts of denun- 
ciation, and the utilitarian spirit of the nineteenth century, 
how few there are that at some time have not ! — can enter 
the portal of the dome under which he rests without a 
heightened pulse and some reflection of the old enthusiasm 
of youth ? Outside in the sunshine of the paved court, 
with its walls of trees clipped into cool grottos of shadow, 
and its air of peace enhanced by the silent cannon which 
rest in bronze inactivity around the quiet paths, the old 
soldiers for whom the place was designed, sit with the 
peaceful shadows of the evening of life gathering about 
them. On their honourable breasts are the medals brought 
from many a desperate field ; the noatness of military dis- 
cipline is in every item of dress and carriage ; the training of 
camp holds them erect before the advancing enemy of years. 
Those grizzled moustaches have faced death too many times 
to quail before his approach here. Any one of them, with 
brightening eye, will point your way to " Le Tombeau," the 
only tomb to those, who are its invincible Old Guard, 
stronger for their weakness than any pride or lustiness of 
manhood could make them. For them, almost as much as 
for that silent hero within, the struggles of life are over ; 
for them, as for him, the beloved land. La Patrie, has pro- 
vided a resting-place. Why should they not be content ? 

97 G 



98 A SUMMb:R HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

Inside, the great dome, with its pale blue light scarce 
piercing the lower shadows, rises above that grand sarco- 
phagus, of which it seems the spiritual apotheosis. Looking 
down from the circular gallery at the dim vault below, the 
twelve colossal Victories which stand around the tomb with 
bowed heads, and crowns held in drooping hands, seem ht 
comrades for the dead commander. The barbaric glory of 
yellow mosaic which radiates from the centre of the floor 
is the only incongruous point in the dignity of conception 
of decoration. Why might they not have allowed the 
green laurels of the inner wreath to tell their own story, 
with Marengo and Austerlitz, Eivoli and Jena lending 
their brilliant names to bind them together ? Why might 
they not have left those eloquent trophies — the tattered 
flags snatched from the proudest and strongest hands of 
Europe ? — to speak for him. With this sombre stone as a 
centre, there is no need of spur for the imagination. One 
likes to think of him here safe from the tortures of that 
living death, or the cruel rock that held him so long from 
the land and the people, which in spite of all his errors of 
impetuous ambition he loved so well. If it were only for 
the impulse he gave to the material beauty of France, and 
for the unusual clearness and justice of many of his terse 
edicts of military law, the country has reason never to 
forget his memorv, nor forefjo its meed of honour to him. 
Women especially should remember with kindliness one 
who was first to make the wife's rights equal to the 
husband's in the division of property ; giving her such 
complete control of one entire half of their mutual posses- 
sions, that she could dispose of it in any way she pleased 
without his consent. In the partnership of marria^^e he 
considered the housekeeper's work, with its ceaseless activity, 
thrift, devotion, and helpfulness, equal to the exertions of 
the breadwinner in forming a foundation of prosperity ; 



' THE INVALIDES AND PERE LA CHAISE. 99 

and he gave to the woman a legal right to her share of 
the results. It was a magnanimity of understanding and 
of action to which the rest of the world has not even yet 
attained ; and it should be remembered for Bonaparte, at 
least as long as his impudent rejoinder to Mme. de Stael's 
impudent question, which is so often used as a stone to 
fling back at him. " The evil that men do lives after them," 
and with perfect justness ; but let us see that the good 
remains also to lessen the shadow of reproach. 

It is sincerely to be hoped that a day may come when 
the great museum of the Invalides, with its chronology 
written in instruments of blood, may be regarded as we 
now do the mechanisms of torture belonging to the Inquisi- 
tion. These illustrations of the long, dark chapter of his- 
tory, which records human weakness and cruelty, should be 
as out of date in these days of progress as the coarse wood- 
cuts of the Middle Ages. The leaf is not yet turned which 
will relegate them to the past and make them wholly matters 
of impersonal curiosity, but its time is as surely approach- 
ing as that of to-morrow's sunrise. Every dome and spire 
that glistens beyond there in the Champs de Mars ^ is a 
hand raised to heaven against the wickedness of war and 
desolation. The people who see before them such evidences 
of the wealth, the nobility, and the magnificent strength 
of labour, will not be long in questioning the principle 
which turns its power into weakness and its riches into 
dust. May the time come soon which is to change every 
injustice of force into the holy uses of the brotherhood of 
mankind. 

After the Invalides, one naturally turns toward P^re la 

Chaise, where lie so many of Napoleon's comrades. Next 

to the magnetism of contact with the living personage is 

that of standing by his tomb. Wandering here amid these 

* The Exposition buildings. 



lOO A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

serried ranks of the great ones of the earth, a species of 
exaltation seizes one. The most leaden fancy cannot help 
but rise somewhat to the level of the spiritual company in 
which it finds itself. Here are they who moved nations 
and changed the face of the world, some with the shock 
and crash of arms, some by the brilliant light of genius, 
some by the quiet force of patient and loving endeavour. 
P^re la Chaise, more than the Pantheon, is the Westminster 
Abbey of France. What a grouping of the Immortals! The 
Marshals of France, that dazzling band that flashes like a 
train of comets across the battlefields of centuries ; soldiers 
and sailors, sculptors, artists, poets ; doctors who have 
lightened the woes of mankind, and politicians who have 
often added to them ; authors and actors ; scientists and 
mathematicians ; all names that are like the voices of old 
friends heard again after long absence. One can fancy the 
leaders of each group surrounded by their followers. Ney 
and Massena, Lefebvre and Bruat, David and Corot, and 
Alfred de Musset. Here would be Nelaton and Larrey, De 
Morny and Thiers, Racine, Balzac and La Fontaine, Moliere 
and Rachel, Gall and La Place. What an acre of the gods ! 
To one who walks amid these close-built paths for the first 
time the shadow of these great names is almost as constant 
as that of their resting-places. Turn as one may, some ray 
of glory flashes from the darkest corner. But why could they 
not have left the poor, outworn bodies to the light of day 
and the soft, warm covering of the sod, instead of those 
cumbering weights of marble and granite ? Why should 
the imprisonment of the spirit instead of its emancipation 
still be kept before our eyes by these ugly piles of stone and 
mortar ? But perhaps the poor ghosts would not feel at 
home released from the sombre twilight of barred doors and 
grated windows. Certainly Pere la Chaise would not be 
half so picturesque. The names over the dark thresholds 



THE INVALIDES AND PERE LA CHAISE. lOI 

of this little city of dead Paris outshine all the pride of the 
living, although they are so often the same. Each of the 
families that glitter in the sunshine of life beyond, whose 
palaces resound with the triumphant accompaniments of 
wealth and fame, has here its small house of retirement and 
rest, where at last peace may be found, and silence. No 
matter how burning the loves and hates, the ambitions an'd 
failures of yonder world, here is the quiet of eternity to ease 
the bruises of time. Perhaps green fields and the tender 
voice of Nature might not speak their lesson so loudly. 

It will be many weeks before the attractions which so 
powerfully hold one within the city fortifications relax suffi- 
ciently to allow any normal interest in the world beyond 
the walls. But when at last, native curiosity or the re- 
presentation of friends induces you to cross the Paibicon, 
another little rap on the knuckles by one of the anachronisms 
of Paris awaits you. Here is in many respects the centre 
of the world's civilisation. Here is the focus from which 
the rays of highest progression in thought, in art, in science, 
in every form of cultivated labour, spread themselves to th^ 
ends of the earth. There is no improvement of modern 
times which has not been availed of to make the city 
beautiful, shapely, strong. She has thrown aside the 
shackles of ancient custom, and resplendently arrayed her- 
self in the garments of Freedom. Yet outside every gate 
that leads from her broad avenues into the country beyond, 
is a relic of the intolerance and ignorance of the dark ages 
in a wretched little Custom House whose officers poke their 
hands into your travelling satchel, and their noses into your 
business, to see that you are carrying no article for sale or 
barter from one town to another without paying first the 
duty upon it. Here is Protection carried to its logical con- 
clusion. To keep the home market for the home consumer, 
a srardener may not sell a bunch of radishes, of which he 



I02 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

lias too many, to his neighbour who has too few, simply 
because the neighbour's house is within the line of another 
township. You drive to the town of Vincennes; a liveried 
official bands you from the carriage, eyes your suspicious hand- 
bag or lunch-basket, and makes you empty it before him or 
not, according to his discretion and the state of his diges- 
tion. A market waggon passes into St. Mande on the way ; 
other officials fumble among the baskets of eggs, the piles 
of carrots and cabbages, until their estimate is made, and 
the privilege of entrance paid for. You go to the Forest of 
Fontainebleau by train or diligence, to the Palace of Versailles, 
or Asnieres, or Marly le Eoi, or La Malmaison ; always the 
same formal etiquette of apprehensiveness for fear that a 
sou's worth of contraband material is concealed in your 
woman's one pocket or your man's twelve. And you are 
always absolutely placed in a position where a right of 
search can be exercised upon you m the name of the law, 
and where you are quite powerless to prevent or resent 
it. And these are the gates of Paris at the end of the nine- 
teenth century ; and the Government which has taken down 
the mottoes of faith and love from the portals of their 
churches to surmount them by the legend of LiberU, EgaliU, 
FraterniU, sees no incongruity in this miserable hodge-podge 
on equal rights in trade and barter. Not content with 
placing obstacles in the way of the adventurous foreigner 
who would cross their boundaries witli merchandise, they 
obstruct the progress of their own people in the same way. 
The wonder is that they do not place one of these invisible 
barriers between the twenty-eight different arrondissements 
of the city ; and deny the Quartier Latin the privilege of 
buying or selling to the Champs Elysees, or the opposite. 

It is to be hoped this remnant of mediaeval stupidity 
will not prevent your roaming about through those exquisite 
suburbs ; after all, Paris needs some faults as well as some 



THE INVALIDES AND PERE LA CHAISE. IO3 

follies to make it human. There is no point to choose 
which has not its own special attraction, and in which 
loving care has not added to historic value. So that some 
day will probably find you at St. Cloud, walking toward 
Sevres tlirough the marvellous park, which is certainly one 
of the most beautiful, as it is one of the smallest, of the 
royal pleasure-grounds of ancient France. Keep, if you 
are wise, the broad, green alleys under the trees, under the 
terraces of fountains, with glimpses of chateaux and soft 
grey spires between the vistas ; with groups of statuary, and 
gracious figures of bronze and marble showing here and 
tliere beyond leafy arches, with the prattle of children and the 
ripple of bird voices making the sweet air melodious. And 
go instead to the other Palace of Industry, which hides under 
the trees at one corner by the river gate of Sevres. So 
small a place to be so world famous ! Go to the Museum, 
where everything in grace and beauty in ceramics, which 
the genius of man has produced in any country or civilisa- 
tion, is gathered, as a clinic for the imagination which is to 
study form and colour from them. See the school for the 
artist and designer which this freely unlocks, so that his 
efforts may be quickened in the right direction and march 
from greatness to greatness. You will not wonder, then, at 
the marvellous strides which this manufactory has taken in 
artistic rank, or why it holds its place with the foremost 
conceptions of modern skill. 

Behind the exhibition rooms, filled with an infinity of 
objects of more than regal magnificence, a very courteous 
official, in uniform and white gloves, leads you through the 
workshops. There are the lumps of white clay, cleansed 
and sifted ; and the pulverised glittering silicate which 
makes the dongh for the biscuit. There is the infinite- 
care with which it is mixed and kneaded until the con- 
sistency is at just the proper degree. There is the mould- 



I04 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

ing in so many delicate pieces, or the modelling upon the 
potter's wheel of objects so fragile ttiat a breath would be 
sufficient to crush them. There is the separate fashioning 
of the handle of the dainty cup and its foot ; the prepa- 
ration of the enamel and its application ; tlie frameworks 
which are to support the frail body until it has been 
hardened by the test of fire. There are the mighty ovens, 
roof high, within which the tender handiwork is piled ; 
each tiniest bit in its own separate compartment; the 
sealing up of doors and chicks with moist clay ; the huge 
fires in which scores of cords of wood blaze and smoulder ; 
the gradual cooling off; the anxious search for failures and 
imperfections. And then the decoration, in which trained 
eyes and hands apply the most delicate touches with such 
infinite care that the simplest band seems an endless task ; 
and the second firing, to burn the dull colours into beauty 
and brightness ; and the burnishing with polishing tools, 
which gives the last touch or finish. And there at last is 
your simplest cup that leaves the workshop of Sevres ; deep 
with that rich blue which glows like some strange jewel, 
framed in a rim of shining gold as delicate as frostwork ; 
perfect with the perfection of educated human skill rather 
than the clumsy exactness of machinery. Of course, you 
carry it home as a trophy and place it among your Lares 
and Penates to speak to you for ever of a summer holiday 
under the deep arches of the forest of St. Cloud, and a few 
hours of absorbing interest spent in watching one of the 
highest developments of trained labour. If you have ever 
wondered before why Sevres cost so much, you will restore 
the balance hereafter by wondering how it can cost so little. 
According to all the rules of recompense, according to the 
time and taste, the imagination and training lavished on 
your one tiny cup and saucer, instead of three dollars, it 
should have been bought with three hundred. 



CHAPTER XIII. 
ON THE EIFFEL TOWER. 

I WONDER if one could ever leave Paris without regret, whether 
it were years or months that had made it familiar. There 
are some forms of beauty for which no familiarity can breed 
contempt, and this fair city seems to possess them. The last 
night, as we stood under the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, 
while the great revolving light atop of the Eiffel Tower 
bathed us now and again in a blaze of white radiance, it 
seemed as if nothing made by hand of man could be more 
glorious. Down the long length of the Champs Elysees, close 
lines of large lamps stood like torch-bearers under the trees 
reaching to the obelisk ; between them, a maze of moving 
sparkles, like swarming fireflies, filled the broad way, as the 
lighted carriages went and came. On either side, separated 
by the leafy shade which arched over broad side-walks, the 
tall stately palaces shone with faint gleams from balconied 
windows, as the night air moved lace drapei'ies enough to 
show the rosy and amber glory of the silken shaded lights 
within. Behind us, the equally beautiful Bois de Boulogne 
melted into the darkness, with its long train of torches again 
holding place as guard of honour ; with its own host of moving 
carriage lamps, and facades of houses gleaming white under 
the silver shining of the moon. A mob of foot-passengers, 
with that expansive gaiety and careless ease which mark the 
Parisian always, but more especially in the evening, lounged 
over the smooth flags which would almost mask the tread 

105 



I06 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

of an army ; and the brilliant equipages as they rolled by 
showed whatever was most elegant in the dress and form of 
fashion. It was like some grand f^te ; and such it is, only 
that the festival goes on for ever. 

We had gone in the morning to the Eiffel Tower, as it was 
the first day on which the upper lifts had been opened to the 
public. Ten minutes after the doors in the great corner 
masses of masonry were thrown open, five hundred people 
were in line at the station which conveyed passengers to 
the second stage, from which the final ascent is made. Two 
flights of stairs led up to what appeared to be a small house 
of two stories, each consisting of a single room with doors and 
windows. Immediately on entering, the house and the fifty 
or sixty persons in it began to move diagonally up the three 
hundred feet of inclined plane leading to the first platform. 
Less than five minutes sufficed to land one at this preliminary 
stage, which proves to be an enormous hollow square, filled 
by four large restaurants and numberless smaller booths for 
the sale of different articles. Over the balustrades which 
protect the open centre and the outer promenade, one saw 
the city as a bird might, not yet too far away to destroy the 
symmetry of proportion and the relative effects of height and 
distance. From this point the Exposition grounds were 
singularly attractive ; the paths among the pleasure gardens 
and the lovely lanes full of strange pavilions, kiosks, minarets, 
pagodas, and temples being perfectly outlined. 

Numbers were already breakfasting in the Eussian Tea 
House, or the Alsace and Lorraine Caf^, where pretty girls in 
the picturesque costume of their country dashed in and out with 
jingling piles of plates and glasses. The space covered in 
was so vast, and the number of shops so large, that it was as 
if a village had been suddenly lifted into the air and planted 
there. A forest of flags and streamers rose from gable 
and roof-line, while a close line of lamps outlined the entire 



ON THE EIFFEL TOWER. I07 

outer edge, so as to produce the girdle of fire we see by 
night. 

It was considered more exciting to climb to the next stage, 
two hundred feet above, so we tried it. The stairs are like 
long narrow corkscrews, bolt upright, connected by five 
flights of steps in the ordinary fashion. These teetotums are 
fortunately guarded by high iron fences, so tall that one's 
head barely reaches above, so that unless one makes an effort 
to become dizzy there is no opportunity for such nonsense. 
Neither was there any foundation for the reports of swaying, 
sea-sickness, and insecurity, which float about the lower world 
in regard to the ascent. It was as immovable and firm as 
a mountain-side. The tiresomeness of the climb was more 
than repaid by the novelty as one wound in and out amid 
the lacework of light iron which crossed in every direction 
like threads of a spider's web. The second stage, when 
reached, was still very large. Figaro had a printing ofiice 
there, and books to receive names and addresses which were 
regularly published in the evening edition. There were more 
booths, more caf^s, more side-shows, but the view was 
practically unchanged. The towers of Notre Dame and the 
Trocadero seemed to have flattened somewhat, and one could 
look farther into the suburbs ; that was all. 

Now came the final tug. We entered with some three- 
score others into a fair-sized room, with walls half made of 
windows, and immediately began to go up, perpendicularly 
this time, and very slowly. In a few minutes came a halt ; 
a door opened on one side, through which all passed into 
another room precisely similar, and the ascent began again. 
It was found to be safer that the last five hundred feet should 
be divided into two stages, so that too much strain shonld 
not be put on cables and machinery. A few moments more 
of somewhat heightened expectancy ; the slow motion ceases ; 
and one steps out into a large square gallery wholly enclosed 



lOS A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

with glass. It is capable of holding perhaps four hundred 
people, and one is obliged to wait until reason has forced 
imagination into a belief in fact before one even looks out. 
It seemed preposterous that this hall should be the little 
platform swung like an eagle's nest in the air that we had 
been looking at for weeks at the top of the tower. 

Then we looked down. The lower earth had become a 
toy world like a large-sized Noah's Ark. There were swarms 
of dolls moving in every direction. Some carried umbrellas 
as big as toad-stools ; some rode in carriages with horses the 
size of Newfoundland dogs. One baby doll walking between 
two elders was merely a speck of white, beneath which two 
black points shot out alternately in steps twice as large as 
the little body. There were toy boats gliding here and there 
under arches of the river ; a company of toy soldiers marched 
as if moved by a spring across the bridge of Solferino ; a 
squad of cuirassiers, their brass helmets shining like pins' heads 
in the sun, moved over the square before the military school. 
The brave gilt halberdiers on the roof of the Hotel de Villa 
shone too ; so did the Dome of the Invalides. The Exposition 
buildings had shrunk to the size of dwelling-houses ; the 
dwelling-houses to that of cabins. The horizon stretched in a 
radius far beyond Fontainebleau and Versailles. The low hills 
which ordinarily bound vision had sunk to mounds ; and the 
city faded — faded from the solid white mass of its central 
portion to scattered faint colour in the environs, and strong 
green beyond. The Bois de Boulogne was a large field with 
clumps of trees ; the great flower-beds in the grounds and the 
Trocadero Gardens were decorations for some fine dinner-table. 
The large marble groups were parian statuettes. By leaning far 
out one saw the white tables in the restaurants on the grass 
below, like ladies' small handkerchiefs spread out to dry. It 
was all unreal, as if you and your companions were Brobding- 
nagians, lookingdown upon some town of little Gullivers. And 



ON THE EIFFEL TOWER. IO9 

although the wind would have blown you into space were it 
not for the protecting interposition of the walls, there was 
but the faintest possible tremor, so slight that one should 
lean heavily against the side to be conscious of it at all. 
It was an experiment no one would like to have left untried, 
if it were only to have gotten that exquisite glimpse of the 
silver-grey Seine winding in large slow curves under the 
beautiful arches of its score of bridges. 

The Parisians, always on the alert for a new sensation, 
have seized upon this ascent of the Tower with a species of 
frenzy. Partly a national pride in the success of their 
countryman's great work, partly the harmless intoxication 
one feels in the rarer medium of a higher atmosphere, draws 
them by thousands to the mild audacity of the attempt. 
The height and the novelty are still the source of never- 
failing wonder and delight to the hundreds of thousands 
who visit the grounds daily. " But that is a tower ! Mon 
Dieu ! How it is beautiful ! I go to ascend it." " Thou, 
Alphonse ? What, to the top ? " " Yes, to the top. It 
will be cheaper soon on Sundays and fetes. But cheap or 
dear, I go ! " *' How thou art brave ! I — I would die of 
fear before I reached the second platform." By the time 
the Exposition is over, there will probably be neither man 
nor gamin in Paris, who can beg, borrow, or steal the neces- 
sary five francs, that will not have connected himself by 
this bit of personal experience with the glory of Eiffel and 
his colleagues. These last have combined prudence with 
enterprise in a remarkable degree. They expect — and it is 
more than probable from present appearances that their 
expectations will be realised — to clear by ascensions alone 
a sum of 2,000,000 francs during the next five months, 
over and above the original cost. If afterward, as is vaguely 
rumoured, the structure should be removed and set up in a 
permanent position, it would remain indefinitely a source 



no A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUKOPE. 

of permanent income. Beside, there is the revenue from 
the rental of the four great restaurants erected on the first 
platform, three hundred feet up, to which the cost of ascent 
is very trifling, and from which a superb view of city and 
suburbs can be obtained. It is an ideal place for dinners, 
and the " little suppers " of which the people are so fond. 
It is not wholly, then, of the honour of France and the 
adorning of its centennial celebration of Liberty that Eiffel 
was thinking. But surely no American can throw the 
first stone at him for this. 



CHAPTER XIV. 
ORLEANS. 

After one has seen this portion of country which stretches 
toward the middle of France, through the valley of the Loire, 
it is hard to understand why it should be considered wanting 
in the element of the picturesque. The low, billowy hills which 
cease almost immediately after passing the immediate environs 
of Paris, give place to a series of limitless, plains, beautiful, 
fertile, and so flat that the horizon is like that of the ocean. 
There is neither stone wall nor hedge to break the continuity, 
yet there is no sense of sameness in the boundless outlook. 
Every form and variety of grain and produce finds rich 
harvest ground in these sunny fields, broken only by occa- 
sional groups of the stately poplars so peculiar to France, 
or the orchards about the grey piles of peasant buildings. 
Splendid dashes of colour are given by masses of flame-red 
poppies among the wheat, and patches of brilliant yellow 
mustard stretching here and there between the green 
growths. Now and again near the roadway, or far in the 
distance, the pointed terra cotta roofs of a village shine 
dully amid the trees ; or the strangely complicated groups 
of buildings enclosing the courtyard of some isolated farm 
give that peculiar foreign effect which is so dear to the 
traveller. The streams which water this lovely valley, even 
when not visible to the eye, can be traced by the winding 
lines of trees which mark their course ; and the numberless 
variations in the crops, which seem to embrace every known 



112 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUllOPE. 

species of vegetable, give such gradations of tint, that the 
eye is soothed rather than fatigued. Every inch of the 
large farms is kept with the care which might be expected 
in a small market garden, and the immediate neighbourhood 
of the house is usually brightened by flowers. When, as 
one travels farther, the vineyards begin, with their strange 
expanses of short, bare poles, about which the young vines 
are only beginning to climb, it is still saved from monotony 
by the constant recurrence of the cultivated fields, with 
their crops for home consumption. 

The farm buildings are so strange to the traveller that 
they merit a word of description. Built always of stone, 
usually covered with coarse mortar, and arranged around 
a large courtyard paved with cobble-stones, the long, low 
houses, with their steep gables, have an aspect of solemnity, 
from the absence of windows, which is out of harmony with 
their smiling surroundings. Whether it is economy, or 
some strange perversity in regard to the uses of sunlight, 
or simply another form of the distemper which causes the 
New England farmer's wife to pull down her curtains, close 
her blinds, and live in the dark, I do not know, but the 
average farm-house here is built as if the sun were a 
criminal to be kept out with bolts and bars. It is quite 
probable that the occupants, women as well as men, live so 
much in the open air, that the house is simply a place to eat 
and sleep in, so that the want is not felt as with us. Cer- 
tainly their colour is better, and there is more vivacity in 
their movements than among our tired, pale people. The 
barns, stables, corn and out-houses all open on the same 
court as the dwelling, but there seemed to be no accumu- 
lation of dirt or untidiness on that account. In this portion 
of France, at least, the cleanliness of town and country is 
very striking. When one remembers the filth which dis- 
figured the cabins in those beautiful Irish fields, one is 



ORLEANS. 113 

forced to believe that the difference in system which makes 
the Frenchman his own landlord, and the Irishman only a 
tenant at the will of a careless absentee, must have some- 
thing to do with the change. 

Orleans, after Paris, is like dropping into the sixteenth 
after having been in the twentieth century. The strangest 
feeling of antiquity possesses one upon entering. The 
narrow paved passages, with high, sombre houses frowning 
down, look more like ways inside the walls of a fortress 
than streets of a city. Stone and masonry are so beneath 
and about that the reality of a time of warfare is constantly 
f)rced upon the mind. Even the squares, though sunny, 
are not bright and cheerful. Everywhere are reminders of 
the Maid of Orleans, and the time to which she belonged. 
Shops of every possible description are named after her. 
Jewellers reproduce her face, her figure, her shield, in their 
ornaments. Stationers fasten them into their penholders 
and paper weights. Art galleries place her pictures and 
statuettes before everything else in their collection. You 
can even order a dress of silk or muslin after her colours and 
devices at the drapers, or eat her bodily in ice, in cake, or in 
chocolate bon-bons at the confectioners. Her statue is in 
half-a-dozen places. In the Hotel de Ville is a bronze copy 
of the design executed in marble by the Princess d'Orleans ; 
a dignified and beautiful conception, doubly valuable as 
coming from the hands of a woman. In the Place Martroy 
a fine equestrian statue, cast in bronze from nine cannon, 
disappoints one on a closer investigation by the aimless 
expression of the face, which is that of a pretty girl posing 
in a masquerade. The sixteen bronze bas-reliefs set within 
the pedestal of granite are of great force and beauty, giving, 
as they do, a summary of the principal scenes in the heroine's 
life. On the bridge of the Loire is the statue cast in 1804 
by Gois, where she is represented leading on foot, with 

H 



114 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

drawn sword and uplifted banner, the cliarge against the 
English. In this the face and figure might have been 
copied from Mary Anderson ; and the pose, full of action, 
yet wanting in some indefinable way the element of sym- 
pathy, suggests our American girl also. It is precisely the 
way Miss Anderson would " create " Joan of Arc. Not far 
away a paltry cross mounted on an uneasy pillar marks the 
spot where the memorable charge upon the tower or Fort des 
Tournelles, was made on the 7th of May 1429. An earlier 
statue erected by the women of France in 1458 was un- 
fortunately melted into cannon during the Reign of Terror, 
but the copy preserved in the museum is so extremely ugly 
that regret for its loss can be only on historic grounds. 

The same museum, which is entirely devoted to her 
memory, contains some rare old Flemish tapestries, repre- 
senting the different events in her career of arms, number- 
less paintings and statuettes in wood, bronze, and metal, 
showing her in every conceivable attitude and circumstance, 
from the time of the visions at Domremy to the martyr- 
dom at Rouen, and a most interesting collection of bas- 
reliefs and etchings. Among the potteries is a plaque of 
Palissey ware, on which she is shown drawing the arrow 
from her neck at the moment when she falls wounded, in 
accordance with her prophecy, before the battle outside the 
walls. A number of arrow-heads in flint, stone, and crude 
iron, with some of the balls thrown from the English mor- 
tars — stone, and as large around as a man's body — are also 
here, with the banner which was painted by Leonardo da 
Vinci, and which has been carried in the annual procession 
since the time of Francis I. It is impossible to obtain any 
clear view of the heroine's face or figure after studying these 
relics. She is presented in every phase, from that of the 
simple dreamer to the triumphant warrior, and each con- 
ception is utterly unlike. Some are heroic, some shrinking, 



ORLEANS. 115 

some wasted by fasting and prayer, others superbly alive 
with consciousness of power ; some make her blonde, others 
brunette. One must select for himself. 

That Circe of a Paris, which turns the head of all who 
have partaken of her hospitality, and makes all beauty 
seem paltry beside her own, prevents one at first from doing 
justice to Orleans. Yet the city is attractive in a new, 
half-sullen fashion. The tortuous, strangely winding streets 
open in the most unexpected spots upon houses of great 
architectural beauty and historic value, like that of Agnes 
Sorel or Francis I. Some quarters, like those about the 
old church of St. Paul, are as if they still remained in the 
Middle Ages. An isolated belfry and a high convent wall 
on one side, and the church itself upon the other, bound 
a paved lane which twists and turns between cobbled side- 
walks not two feet wide, with vistas down other dark ways, 
like dungeons which have been opened on top to light and 
air. Such a network of corners and curves, such strange 
massive greystone houses, such gloomy arches opening into 
gloomy courts, such tiny dark shops. You feel that a post 
chaise and four or a canopied sedan chair should be the 
means of locomotion instead of that noisy tramway yonder, 
with its shrill whistling conductor on the front platform. 
The cathedral, which is very fine, strongly reminds one of 
Notre Dame, both without and within, although it is so 
much smaller; but it has too many windows, and so 
lacks the impressiveness of the older and greater church. 
The high altar, which was a gift of Louis XV., the 
windows at the end of the nave, and some of those in 
the lateral chapels, and an exquisite piece of sculpture in 
purest Carrara marble to the memory of the beloved Bishop 
Dupanloup, are its greatest ornaments. The exterior is noted 
for the finely carved front facade, and the delicacy of thd 
flvino: buttresses at the side. There is not one of the 



Il6 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

old cliurcLes which is not beautiful and interesting. Under 
that of Saint Aignan extends a crypt constructed by Charle- 
magne. To those who have been bred in the belief that 
all the religious persecution of the Middle Ages was the 
work of Catholics, it is somewhat novel to find the despe- 
rate spirit of vandalism which disfigures history during the 
years when the Protestants found themselves in power. The 
cathedral was razed to the ground in 1567; St. Aignan, 
within a year from that time ; St. Enverte was ravaged and 
pillaged by them, and most of the other churches of Orleans 
felt their fury. There seem to be two sides to every story. 
Out in the direction of Olivet, one of the nearest suburbs 
of the city, are the sources of the Loiret — a charming bit of 
landscape beauty. One passes for a few miles along a white 
country road, enclosed on each side by enormously high 
walls, white too, and only occasionally broken by the gable 
end of a house built into them, or an orchard and bolted 
gateway. If any one of these openings chances to be ajar, 
one sees within acres of flowers and gardens, where the city 
florists produce their beautiful wares, and an odour of acacias, 
of roses, of pansies, perfumes the air. Sometimes a strag- 
gling vine, heavy with blossoms, nods over some gap in the 
enclosures, or a few trees throw a grateful shade over the 
dazzling way. But until the bridge of Olivet is reached 
there is very little shelter. Here one descends to the river 
bank through the pretty garden of Eldorado, and takes 
the boat for the head of the river, some two miles away. 
The rowers pull under the greystone arches and out into a 
stream which is lined on either side with trees and villas of 
the quaintest description. Built of brick or stone, with an 
arched opening of masonry below, into which the water 
flows, and where the pretty pleasure-boats of the family are 
moored, there is above but a single room, with its large 
window or windows opening on a balcony which overhangs 



ORLEANS. 1 1 7 

the river. The door is toward the land side ; a little garden 
planted thickly with flowers and shrubbery separates the 
tiny domicile from its neighbour, and a narrow flight of 
stone steps leads to the water's edge. Here on Sundays and 
holidays the merchants of the city come to enjoy the hours 
of summer idleness ; and such fairy spots for rest and recrea- 
tion never were seen before. They are just summer houses, 
not much bigger, with all their surroundings, than a child's 
playground, and furnished with the most coquettish grace. 
Here and there a real country house breaks the quaint 
uniformity, like the Chateau de La Source, in whose prim 
gardens Voltaire read his Henriade to Lord Bolingbroke in 
1722. But nothing is so fascinating as these tiny pleasure 
homes, rising like a miniature and rural Venice from the 
tree-shadowed, beautiful river, which flows so tranquilly full 
of emerald light under their flower- hung balconies. There 
can scarce be another such picturesque nest in the world. 

Orleans is a centre for many forms of industry. There 
are here potteries, manufactories of pins, corsets, woollens, 
iron bedsteads, immense refineries, whose products are ex- 
ported all over Europe, and large establishments for wine 
and vinegar. When you taste the very large bottles of 
very small vin ordinaire which are served with your excellent 
dinner and breakfast at any of the little inns with the big 
names Le Grand Hotel d'Orleans, for instance — you will 
surely think they have confounded these two products, and 
given you the vinegar instead of the wine. It would be an 
admirable drink in the interests of temperance, for, like the 
Mexican pulque, very little is enough. The city, besides 
having been at all times a favourite resting-place of the 
ancient kings of France, and enriched by them with num- 
berless gifts of treasure and public buildings, the remains of 
which can be seen to this day, has been further made glorious 
by being the birthplace of Robert the Pious ; Bongars the 



Il8 A SUMMER HOLIDAY TN EUROPE. 

historian ; Etienne Dolet, the learned printer and martyr, 
in whose honour a statue has just been raised at Paris; the 
great jurisconsults Pothier and Jousse, as well as many 
others. It was the seat of the ministries of St. Euverte, 
St. Aignan, St. Prosper, St. Eucher, the learned prelate 
Theodulphe, and the no less revered Monseignor Dupanloup, 
who in different centuries were bishops of the cathedral. 
Bat for those who go to it from the outside world, it is for 
its frowning, gloomy streets ; its reminiscences of the young 
life of the heroine of France ; its beautiful, though few, 
churches ; and its smells — which are neither few nor beau- 
tiful — that it will be best remembered. 



CHAPTER XV. 
BLOIS. 

It is small wonder when Tasso, who knew the town and 
the people well, praised Blois so quaintly in his Jerusalem 
Delivered, that one who has seen it but through the happy 
span of a midsummer holiday should do likewise. Tasso often 
effected the rare combination of sense with poetry, but never 
more truly than in this case. It is the most charming spot in 
the beautiful valley of the Loire, set on the right of the river 
bank on a group of small steep hills which make the only 
break in the flat plains that extend on every side for thirty 
miles above and below it. It is rather one hill and a couple 
of terraces, but the effect is the same. It is easy to imagine 
that this superiority of location would make the place im- 
portant in those early ages when might ruled the world ; 
and as matter of fact, the fortress, which formerly occupied 
the place of the present chateau, was built upon the ruins 
of an ancient Homan fortified camp. When religion came 
to add its greater strength to that of men and arms, and 
in the sixth century the body of St. Solenne, which was 
being conveyed from Luynes to Chartres, stopped of its own 
accord at the hill of Blois, and refused to be carried further, 
nothing remained but to build a church about the sacred 
relics, and leave them at the spot for which they had shown 
so decided a partiality. Sanctity as well as misery loves 
company, and the Benedictines soon brought the body of 

their good Saint Laumar to the same place, to become the 

119 



I20 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

nucleus of one of the most famous and splendid abbeys of 
the Middle Ages. Pilgrims and strangers from all parts of 
the kingdom naturally gathered about the spot which offered 
them at once spiritual and temporal security, and the little 
town increased in years, in grace, and in numbers, until the 
birth of King Louis XII., in 1462, within its walls, gave 
the finishing touch to its greatness. The wars which so 
continuously desolated the rest of France seemed to spare 
this favoured retreat, until the religious struggles of the 
sixteenth century, and the controversy for supremacy between 
Henry III. and the Duke of Guise, made it the centre of 
intrigue between Catholics and Huguenots. In terrible 
contrast to the peace and prosperity which marked the 
years when the kindly Louis had decreed liberty of worship 
according to conscience, and declared free from all taxes, 
whether of war or peace, revenues destined to buy books, 
pictures, or treasures of such like sort for the great library he 
founded in his beloved chateau, were the scenes of violence 
which followed. Guise was murdered here ; and here also, 
during the fetes offered by Charles IX. and the Queen mother 
to the Calvinist leaders, the horrors of the massacre of St. 
Bartholomew were plotted. For the thirty years following 
this time, until Henry IV. made Paris the actual, as it had 
been the nominal, seat of power, Blois was really the capital 
of France. Afterward, although it knew the presence of 
Pichelieu and Marie de Medicis, although kings and dukes 
flew to it and from it in pursuance of political schemes, 
although the Grande Monarque, Louis XIY., enlivened it 
with the sun of his presence, the Chateau of Blois fell more 
and more into decay and disuse. The Revolution mutilated 
it and scattered the few remaining glories which the rapacity 
of greedy royalty had left. It was only in 1 845 that the 
Government of France voted money to restore the beautiful 
and historic ruin. The work is now almost wholly finished ; 



BLOIS. I 2 I 

only a small portion of one wing being yet in process of 
construction. The rest of the building is in the perfect 
condition in which Francis the First and Louis the Gentle 
left their favourite abode. 

Figure to yourself, as our cousins — not cousins-German, 
but cousins French — are fond of saying, the Blois of to-day. 
The principal part of the town being built on the lower level 
and surrounded by forests, the towers of the churches and 
roofs of the chateau are almost all one sees as the railroad 
from Paris approaches. A broad and beautiful boulevard 
has been constructed, opening up the middle of the city, well 
paved, and turning into the equally broad and beautiful 
highway which passes over the stone bridge crossing the 
Loire. Remarkably pretty houses, dazzling white, with 
stone or plaster fac^ades, and charming balconies of wrought 
and gilded iron outside the long windows, border this fine 
promenade on either side. The shops and restaurants on the 
street floors are the brightest we have seen in any spot out- 
side Paris itself Indeed, with its lovely little square and 
fountain at one end, under the lofty terraced wall of the 
chateau, and its broad, clean, shining sidewalks of flags, this 
portion of it irresistibly recalls the capital. But the blue, 
bright, high-arched sky, and the beautiful wind-blown 
swallows darting in swift flight around the eaves and 
gables from morning until night, are better than even Paris. 
You saunter along the promenade admiring the faience of 
Blois in the shop windows, the enormous cherries and straw- 
berries in the market waggons, the cheery and pleasant faces 
which seem to offer you a good wish in passing. Suddenly 
an opening on the left, not bigger than a medium-sized door- 
way, allows you to look up a street — a pathway — as steep and 
as narrow as a staircase, which twists itself out of sight among 
its dark stone houses before it has gone two hundred feet. 
You walk on filled with delight, as if you had had a glimpse 



122 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

into a world three centuries back. Suddenly again another 
opening just as steep, just as narrow, just as dark, but a real 
fliglit of steps this time, springs up, with two sunny-haired boys 
and a little black goat in the centre of the paved way. " The 
little ladder of St. Honor^ " is this ; and the quaint name is as 
pretty as the quaint situation. A few steps farther on, just 
across the street, a passage opens on the left ; down it goes, 
as deeply as the others, dipping here and there under arch- 
ways, sombre as twilight in the midst of noonday. And now a 
stone staircase, semicircular, 50 feet broad, with a sunny plot 
of flowers in the middle, and flowering acacias shading each 
side, sweeps upward in a set of terraces a hundred feet or 
more above the street, level to a rampart-like wall which rises 
above the chimneys. Slowly you climb, the flying swallows 
whistling and bending about you, to a seat on the parapet; 
and behold ! the long avenue lies directly below, reaching 
over the high arches of the bridge at your feet, with the great 
stone pillars surmounted by the cross at its centre. To the 
right is a square full of stone seats and enormous old trees, 
built in among the chimney tops like a hanging garden ; 
on the left a pathway, cobble paved, two bare walls high as 
houses, and showing the tips of trees above, leads toward the 
strange old tower of the cathedral. These narrow paved 
ways are irresistible ; you wander lingeringly up and down 
on side- walks two feet wide, one foot wide, no width at all ; 
you see houses with wide window ledges full of flowers, and 
bright faces of children peeping through ; houses with win- 
dows like round loopholes ; houses with mere slits in the deep 
stone walls and gloomy archways, as if each were an ancient 
fortress ; houses with no windows at all. And everywhere 
high walled gardens, giving you a hint of fragrance and 
greenery behind their stone gratings, or a rabble of child 
voices from the concealed playground of a school. You 
burrow like a mole through half underground passages, with 



BLOIS. 123 

only a narrow band of sky above to tell you it is brilliant 
daylight in the upper world, half in awe, half in fascination 
of the dark corners and blank walls. Then at each few 
moments you debouch into a dazzle of air and sunshine ; and 
there is one of the quiet little breathing places, so profoundly 
silent, so glowing in light that the transition is almost pain- 
fully pleasant. Under the old trees will be one or two old, 
old people sunning themselves in the warmth, or a nurse with 
a couple of quaint, noiseless, white-capped babies, and nothing 
else in motion, save the wind in the tree-tops, or the swallows 
shrilling with whistling flight. Such a sense of perfect calm 
and rest as these sunny, half-suspended gardens give, I never 
experienced before even among mountains and deserts. For 
here the abodes of men, the surrounding silent, high, grave 
walls seem to clamour for utterance, and not be able to break 
the spell. 

These unexpected small pleasaunces meet you in every 
quarter, always with flights of steps going up to or leading 
from them, some cut in the white rock as if you were 
descending a cavern, some hid in a tangle of greenery like 
a slender ladder of vines and flowers. There is one such 
beautiful dreamy spot in the terraced gardens of the Arch- 
bishop's Palace overlooking the river and valley; and a strange 
sundial in the silent courtyard outside with the pregnant 
motto, " Transit hora ; manent opera ; dum tempus habemus 
operemur bonum." 

There is another facing the inner court of the Chateau, 
where the equestrian statue of Louis XII., in the arch 
above the main portal, blazes with gilt trappings against a 
background covered with the golden lilies of France. There 
is one at the head of the " little ladder of St. Honore," and 
one at the corner of the Eastern Promenade, and one here 
and one there through the entire network of narrow lanes 
which really makes up the city. From some of these, a 



124 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

magnificent view of the town itself and the low-lying forest- 
crowned valley can be had ; with the river running its swift, 
placid way through orchards and green meadows ; from 
others, only the narrow dark arches and pathways leading 
in different directions, like so many threads from the centre 
of a spider's web. They are built above and below, about 
and between the walls and ditches which made up the 
ancient fortifications of the town, and it is most sincerely to 
be hoped they will always remain as they are at present. 

The Chateau, built by Louis XII. and Anne of Brittany, 
and enlarged by Francis I., Henry III., and Catherine de 
.Medicis, is in the strangest medley of styles. At either end, 
with walls nine feet thick, a massive donjon rises like a 
precipice, pierced only by a few narrow windows ; between 
stretches the beautiful facade, with deep recessed arches over 
each window in three stories, and a light and elegant 
Italian loggia above, with graceful pillars of white stone 
rising above a beautiful balustrade of the same material. 
The alcoves around the recessed windows are emblazoned 
in blue and gold, while the outer elevation is in the same 
creamy stone, carved in an infinite diversity of design, with 
shields, mottoes, grinning gargoyles, and an intricacy of 
flowers and scroll-work. The fortresses have held their 
own aofainst the ravao-es of time and the buffets of adverse 
fortune ; the other portions have been wonderfully restored, 
even to the colour and style of decoration, by the Historic 
Society of France. No wonder they should desire to pre- 
serve a spot so rich in history. It was here Louis XII. 
was born, and the unhappy Claude of France, whose emblem 
of the swan, with an arrow piercing its breast, is to be found 
in some of the chambers ; here Catherine de Medicis plotted 
her crimes and ambitions, and Henry III. convoked the 
Councils of State to legalise his intolerance of the Hugue- 
nots ; here Marie de Medicis fled, with Armand Duplessis de 



BLOIS. 125 

Richelieu in her train, only to find her retreat changed to 
a prison, from which she escaped by a ladder of ropes and 
the kindly shadow of night. Here Guise was trapped to 
his death in the weak and cruel king's bedchamber, and 
Catherine mixed poisons with conspiracies, and Louis XIV. 
met fair La Valliere under the trees of the park. To-day 
it is all renewed for modern eyes to look upon. There are 
chambers and chapels and studies of the diiferent royalties, 
with their favourite devices blazoned in blue and gold over 
the groined roofs ; and the wonderful mantels, carved and 
illuminated like ancient missals ; and the alcoves above the 
kneeling-chairs, rich with rare splendours of glass in the small 
leaden frames. There are secret doors in the wainscoting, 
which used to be hung with tapestries, and secret stairways 
in the heavy walls, climbing up to the beautiful battlements, 
or down to the horrors of dungeons too infernal to speak 
of. There is the private cabinet of Catherine, sheathed in 
carved oak, and gilded until it shines like a tapestry of 
gold, with each of its 248 panels cut in a different device 
as fine and delicate as lace-work. You may be sure there 
were secret places there, and plenty of them. And there 
are private chapels and cloistered arches, and the great 
Hall of Fetes, which witnessed the assemblage of the States 
General in 1588, and what must be one of the most beauti- 
ful bits of architecture of the Renaissance left to the world 
— a staircase of carved greystone, built in a succession 
of open pillared colonnades, carved, of extreme elegance. 
With its wonderful heights and dimensions, and its rich- 
ness of colour, this chateau gives one a new idea of the 
luxury of those early centuries we are wont to term and to 
fancy barbaric. Under these lofty ceilings and columned 
galleries, between soft tapestries and rugs, with walls nine 
feet deep, and endless entourage of fawning courtiers, 
what could kings and queens know of the common rabble 



126 A SUMxMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

who lived almost like wild beasts in the huts outside their 
gates ? 

But we are staying too long at the chateau. For there 
are yet the pretty open markets to be spoken of, and the 
ancient fountain of Louis XII., and the monumental staircase, 
with its bronze statue of Denis Papinaton, and the Hotel 
d'Alluye, with its gallery ornamented with medallions in 
terra cotta of the eleven Caesars. And then the college, 
the seminary, the Bishop's Palace, the old cemetery, the 
Beauvoir Tower, the Palace of Justice, and the Chateau 
of St. Lazare, where Victor Hugo lived in 1820. Not to 
speak of Chambord, that "Pearl of Renaissance," which 
would require a letter for itself, but which in spite of all its 
splendour is more memorable to us in that Moliere gave here 
his first representation of Pourceaugnac, and Le Bourgeois 
Gentilhomme. Ah ! Blois ! Blois ! How many of your 
glories your poor chronicler has left unhonoured and unsung 
in spite of all the delight you have given her ! One thing, 
however, shall not go without mention — the Creme de Saint 
Gervais! Think of cream in a little brown earthen pot, 
tied up in vine leaves, so thick that you have to scoop 
it out like butter. And of a fragrance ! Think then of 
strawberries as big as your two thumbs, dipped, rolled into 
this delicious bath, and eaten in a blanket of powdered sugar. 
Think of this twice every day for breakfast and for dinner, 
with some eight or nine courses preceding, one of which 
shall be a species of bouch^es of truffled unknown delicacies, 
and another a ragout of duck with mushrooms. And think 
that with a pretty room, with a shaded balcony all to your- 
self, and a landlady who gives you a smile and a bunch of 
roses every morning, in the best hotel in town, you pay 
only two dollars a day. Then don't think any more, but 
say with me from the bottom of your hearts, *' Ah ! Blois ! 
Blois!" 



CHAPTER XYI. 
TOURS. 

The country between Blois and Tours at midsummer can 
only be described as a garden ; every foot of it shows such 
marks of careful cultivation, and it is such a wilderness 
of flowers. The railroad is bordered mainly with acacias 
now in full blossom, so that the air is as if blown through 
an orange grove. Wheat-fields are so sown with poppies 
that they look more like beds of flowers than of grain ; the 
second crop of peas is full of pale, delicate clusters; the 
barley shines like sheafs of silver through its long, silky 
beard ; strawberries glow like rose-beds ; the banks of the 
river and hedges of the roads are covered with wild bluebells 
and tall yellow fleur de lis. Even the vineyards look like 
plantations of young shrubbery, and the beautiful grouping 
of trees scattered here and there over the wide plain make 
it appear as a gentleman's park might that is under con- 
stant surveillance. It is so wonderful to see this unending 
beauty, which care and industry have created, that one never 
ceases admiring. There are no stones, no rough spots, no 
waste places. Everything is finished to the last degree of 
perfection. 

Tours is larger and richer and finer, perhaps I might even 
say more beautiful, than Blois ; but it is not half so fascinating. 
Tours is a provincial demoiselle, very chic, very well dressed, 
with a good dowry to support her pretensions ; but just a trifle 

too self-possessed and gaily-dressed. You see all my lady's 

127 



128 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

airs and graces at once, and it pleases you to flirt a while. 
But Blois is one of those demure, long-lashed, dark-eyed little 
creatures whom you do not notice in the beginning, but who 
suddenly one day looks up with an arch sparkle, and shows 
her small white teeth in a dazzle of a smile that changes all 
her face into a sort of dark splendour, and there you are, made 
captive heart and soul ; you don't know how, to you don't 
know what. It is the simplest thing in the world, however. 
You have fallen in love. But we will not grow sentimental. 
Tours is very well when you cannot help yourself. 

It has a great deal to be honestly proud of. There is a 
magnificent promenade under quadruple rows of fine trees, 
running, or rather walking, for a mile through the centre of 
its principal boulevards. There is one of the largest printing 
and publishing houses in France, employing 1200 men; that 
of Mame, which occupies commodious and handsome quarters. 
There is a cathedral which is finest of all in the valley of the 
Loire, and second only in magnificence to the four great piles 
of Amiens, Chartres, Eheims, and Bourges. It still preserves 
in the choir some of the most remarkable windows in existence, 
dating from the thirteenth century, and priceless as specimens 
of the work in glass of that period. There is the Tower of 
Charlemagne, which that monarch raised over the remains 
of his wife Luitgarde, as the Eastern Prince made the Taj 
Mahul the shrine of his beloved. Only since Luitgarde was 
a third wife, and I think there was a fourth before the con- 
nubial chapter ended, so the Frankish monument is not quite 
so beautiful as the Persian. Then there are churches without 
number, each remarkable in some particular way — one for its 
pictures, one for its age, one for its riches, one for its archi- 
tect. There are two which deserve better uses, turned now 
into shops for produce and grain ; and a little chapel of the 
twelfth century which is a real curiosity in architecture. 
Besides, one is constantly coming across fine buildings, the 



TOURS. 1 29 

remains, in more or less perfect preservation, of old convents 
and cloisters ; some still retained for religious uses, and some 
devoted to the more modern god of trade. There is a theatre, 
all new and spic and span, with sculptured facade and 
Corinthian columns, and statues and masks and what-not, in 
the approved hodge-podge style, which is to art what opera 
bouffe is to music. And there are really fine markets, and 
a handsome fountain, and houses with traditions of all sorts 
of famous occupants, from Tristan THermite to Mile, de la 
Valliere — which is certainly a sufficiently wide difference. 

Along with all these. Tours has a pedigree as long as my 
arm, of Saints and Sinners, each sufficiently remarkable in 
his or her way to merit a capital letter in designating them. 
Besides St. Martin, who was brought here after his death, 
there is St. Perpet, who was his successor as bishop ; and 
St. Gregoire, who wrote the first history of France some- 
where about the beginning of the seventh century. There 
was also Alcuin, the Abbot of St. Martin's, who ought cer- 
tainly to be canonised, although he isn't, for having opened 
here the first public school of theology and philosophy in 
France ; and sweet St. Clothilde, who died here. Heading 
the other list comes Louis XI., a mad demon clothed in the 
mantle of religion, who paid the city the poor compliment 
of making it the seat of his favourite residence of Plessis-les- 
Tours, where he and his honest friend Olivier, the barber, 
could hang men from limbs of trees and snare them in iron 
cages. But since the devil is never so black as he is painted, 
this same royal madman helped to make the place of his 
preference great and rich. He established manufactories of 
silk, and cloth of gold and silver, and offered such advantages 
and privileges to workmen and merchants that the population 
increased enormously. But the chronology of vice is not 
interesting. Since we have found that a good word can be 
said about Louis, let us hope the same would be true of the 

I 



T30 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

wickedness wliicli would follow him as leader, and leave it in 
peace. 

If Tours, however, had no argument in its favour than that 
it is the gateway to so many of the historic properties of 
France, it would have its excuse for being. Loches is witbin 
an hour of it, and Montbazm and Couzieres; so are Cinq 
Mars and Chateau Renault and Langeais. So is Chenon(;;eaux, 
most strangely beautiful of all this bevy of beauties. The 
chateau, built on a series of arches which entirely cross the 
Cher — built, in reality, upon a great bridge of stone — is unique 
in this regard, as well as in the romance and variety of its 
historic reminiscence. It was here that Henry II. installed 
Diana of Poitiers with the title of Duchess of Valentinois. 
When the death of the king put a period to the wicked 
beauty's plans of limitless expenditure, she exchanged witli 
Catherine de Medicis her royal lover's gift for Chaumont, 
which was already finished, while Chenon^eaux was not well 
begun. Catherine immediately proceeded to enrich and 
beautify this, which became her favourite residence, and from 
that time to this it has been in hands which were able and 
willing to preserve its rare charms. Strange to say, it was 
in the hands of a commoner, M. Dupin, that it attained its 
greatest brilliancy. During the sixty or seventy years of the 
ownership of this family, it received as guests all that was 
most notable and worthy in French society ; and even the 
Revolution, when it came, spared the house as well as the 
owners, who had learned to make themselves beloved as well 
as honoured. BufFon was received here, and Montesquieu, 
Condellac, Bolingbroke, and Voltaire. Rousseau spent some 
years superintending the education of the heir of the house 
and writing verses, "which," he says, "had no other virtue 
than being funny." One can imagine the superb company 
in the superb palace, or wandering about the grounds ; through 
the terraced garden of the dead and gone Diana, beautiful 



TOURS. 1 3 I 

still with her flowers and fountains ; through the bright alleys 
of the park, and the stately glories of the long galleries which 
Catherine had built above the river arches. Imagination 
cannot picture anything so lovely as this mass of towers 
and spires in carved greystone, with the long span of the 
galleries, which rise for three stories behind, all lifted upon 
the beautiful arches through which the beautiful river flows 
so swiftly. Inside the first portcullis — for one only enters 
this enchanting spot by crossing two drawbridges — a donjon 
tower of the fifteenth century guards the approach to the portal 
of the chateau. Within the noble rooms, with high ceilings 
of carved oak, chimney pieces fifteen feet high, and blazoned 
in blue and gold, doors and window screens that are masses 
of open work, as fine and delicate as old lace, and royal ciphers 
wrought between fleur de lis and laurel wreaths, make an 
ensemble of magnificent decoration. The most charming 
nooks for boudoirs open from each great salon or chamber 
into the round towers. They told us fairy stories of the 
manner in which these walls and floors had been furnished 
by the last owner, Madame Pelouse, the sister of the whilom 
notorious M. Wilson, whose name figured so unpleasantly 
during the last part of his father-in-law, President Grevy's, 
administration. Hung from ceiling to floor with rose-coloured 
silks and rare tapestries, filled with statues and priceless 
bric-a-brac, adorned with every elegance that limitless wealth 
and taste could devise, it must have been a dream of beauty. 
In the long Salon des Fetes the walls were still covered with 
fine old paintings, some sacred, some exceedingly profane — 
as one of Gabrielle, mistress of Henry, and her two sisters, 
taken as the Three Graces. A portrait of Madame Pelouse, 
by Carolus Duran, of more than life-size, and occupying the 
place of honour, shows her a coarse, but fine-looking woman, 
with a suspicion of beard on the chin, and the pose of an 
empress. Fortunately beards do not interfere with poses. 



J 52 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

That was all that was left now of the career of folly which, 
in twenty-four years, had reached the end of the endless 
riches. '' But Madame will understand the money was thrown 
away by handfuls. There were fortunes spent on the chateau, 
and fortunes on the grounds, and fortunes on the fetes. It 
was a river of money, and there were so many to drink it." 
The concierge's metaphor was mixed, but it was explicit. 
Madame Pelouse is in Paris, and beautiful Chenon^eaux is 
at Blire, in the hands of the Credit Foncier of France. So 
its wheel of fortune is ready for another turn. 

It would be hard to say, though, that Chenon^eaux the 
chateau is any more lovely than Chenon(^eaux the hamlet. 
Such a nest of verdure and flowers under the poplar trees. 
Such dear, quaint, dark little houses, each with its garden 
behind it, and its wooden shuttered windows turned blankly 
to the village street. Such views up and down the shady 
lanes, with the quiet Cher flowing through the quiet land- 
scape. And such a delicious small inn, with the daintiest 
small parlour, hung about the walls with blue and gold 
faience of Turenne, and radiant with great masses of flowers, 
in which one can have such an excellent dinner. Your 
strawberries will be brought in from the garden while your 
omelette and chop disappear, and there is clotted cream as 
rich as that of St. Gervais, of blessed memory. "Madame 
is regarding the flowers ! But yes, they are really very fine. 
They are the work of the grandfather, who has spent all hia 
life in cultivating the peony. And it is just at this moment 
that his grandson, my brother, has taken the first prize for 
the tree peonies at the great Paris Exposition of flowers. But 
yes, it is an honour surely. And the gi'andfather is well 
pleased. Perhaps Madame might like to see the garden?" 
And the pretty little maid of the inn, who is doing the 
honours of the strawberries and cream, takes Madame, who 
certainly does like to see, through a grilled gate into a wilder- 



TOUES. 133 

ness of strange peonies, but sublimated into sizes and colours 
and rare pale tints, flames of fire, masses of snow, wonderful 
balls of amber, of rose, of exquisite gradations that no harsh 
known name will fit, large and rich as those famous growths 
of Southern California, and filling the space between the grey 
walls with an unspeakable luxury. Fragrant, too, so that the 
last charm is added to their beauty. No wonder they took 
the first prize at Paris. Here in the midst sits the old grand- 
father, clear of eye and bright of cheek yet, after the sun- 
shine of nearly eighty summers. Each flower that he has 
loved and tended bears the name of one of the family. " Ee- 
gard how we are all here, Madame. Here is the mother, 
that large red one ; and here my sister Rene ; and here the 
brother Pierre, who is now in Paris ; and there the cousins ; 
and there the aunt. There is the grandfather himself, 
with grandmere near him. It is a real/e/^e de famille. And 
mine ? Over there in the corner with the little golden heart." 
Something else besides the flower has a golden heart, little 
maid, if that is any better than the ordinary one of flesh and 
blood. May it long remain untarnished. And may more of 
the world that is looking in its haphazard way for rest and 
refreshment go down to find both at the " Inn of the Good 
Labourer," under the poplars of ChenonQeaux. 

We have been struck all through this journey with the 
wonderful care taken to prevent railroad accidents in France. 
No one is allowed on any account to walk on the rails, and 
a prohibition here means something. In the stations there 
is one side absolutely for arrival and one for departure, so 
that the two can never clash ; and one can only cross the 
track at a special spot under the surveillance of a watchful 
guardian. No matter where or how often country roads are 
intersected by the railway, they either pass under or over ; 
or if by chance they cross on the same level, there are two 
gates always kept shut, with a cottage near by in which the 



134 ^ SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

flagman lives who opeu^ the way to the passer-by. A foot 
passenger can open for himself, but there are invariably the 
two closed gates to open. When one thinks of the reckless- 
ness with which the roads and streets outside our American 
cities, indeed, often within them, run across the railroads, 
and the number of casualties resulting, one is filled with 
admiration at this constant exact watch fulnesa No wonder 
the people pride themselves on few accidents. 



SWITZERLAND. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

neuchAtel. 

When the tower has for months been the loftiest thing in 
the field of vision, and you close your eyes in its shadow some 
evnning in a " waggon-lit " or sleeping-car, it is sufficiently 
startling to open them next morning among the gorges of 
the Jura Mountains leading into Neuchatel. The change is 
so pronounced — you have forgotten so utterly amid those fair, 
fertile, boundless plains of France, that there are any moun- 
tainous countries — that the sensation is startling. These about 
you are not very lofty ; the train winds in and out half way 
up a thousand foot slope, sheer precipitous height on one side, 
deep valleys full of cultivated fields on the other. The little 
hamlets and isolated houses are of a new order. The roofs 
are dark brown instead of red, and they slope with broad eaves 
to within ten feet of the ground. The single clear story is 
packed with windows, wider than they are long ; a single 
house has as many as a French village. Sometimes the 
wooden beams under the eaves are gaily coloured ; often there 
are carvings on window-frames and lintels. These pretty 
picturesque dwellings are contrasted with others high and 
narrow, having three or four stories below, and one or two 
others in the sharp gables. There are pastures among the 
thick pine woods on the hillsides, so steep that one would 
think flocks and herds must be spiked into the earth to pre- 
vent their tumbling over into the gardens beneath. There is 
a rapid-rushing, broad stream, pushing so swiftly through 

^37 



138 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUEOPE. 

the valley that it is a white foam of rapids, and hurling itself 
against the rocky sides with such fury that it is dissipated 
into smoke. And every moment some sudden, swift turn of 
the road bears one into new regions of beauty. The moun- 
tain mists are already lifted from the lowlands, but still hide 
the craggy points above ; sometimes a rocky formation like a 
battlement crowns a sturdy peak ; once an old castle-like 
chateau shows upon a height ; the air is full of the strong 
sweet spiciness of pine boughs. By-and-by a final curve 
brings one into sight of a mirror-like smoothness of blue water 
shining in the morning ; beyond it rises a billowy expanse 
of mountains — real mountains — lifting and losing themselves 
amid the upper clouds. If you were being led unknowingly 
without any premonition of destination, your heart would 
tell you it was Switzerland. 

Is every town and village in this wonderful world born to 
a divine dower of beauty ? Here is this little spot, rising in 
irregular terraces above the lake, with the Alps set in shining 
panorama before it, and its quaint medley of modern French 
and old-time houses. The streets run principally on lines 
parallel with the water, connected by short steep passages or 
flights of steps. They are so quiet, so very quiet, that the 
occasional carts and omnibuses must herald their rare appear- 
ance with great salvos of whip-cracking ; and the houses are 
all furnished with tin ear-trumpets in the roof to help them 
catch the faint sounds of life below. At least I do not know 
what else the queer little excrescences can be, or what they 
are meant for. There are pretty chateaux by the water-side 
surrounded by gardens ; and fountains everywhere, flowing 
from bases of pillared statues into circular stone basins, 
wherein good Haus-Fraus come to wash their clothes in big 
tubs, with a piece of smooth plank for a washboard. There 
is a little church of the twelfth century with a modern Gothic 
cloister, on a terrace far above the roofs of the lower town, 



NEUCHATEL. 1 39 

opening on a garden with an ivy-covered battlemented wall 
that is simply delicious. Through the embrasures one looks 
across at the Alps, snow-crowned from Pilatus to Mont Blanc 
— a dream of delight if the coy creatures ever show them- 
selves, which they did not do through the four too short days 
of our stay. They must condescend sometimes, however, for 
I have one of the loveliest photographs in the world which 
shows a long line of radiant peaks melting into a cloudless 
sky. Even when half invisible, they are beautiful enough to 
stir one's pulses with that ineffable lonesome happiness which 
only mountains can give. 

There are delightful excursions to be made by diligence, 
carriage, or the busy little dark steamers which float like 
black swans up and down the lake. Chaumont gives, when 
it chooses, a marvellous view of the lake of Neuchatel, and 
that of Bienne to the north-east, with its far-away chain of 
peaks. The railroad over Les Hauts-Geneveys brings you to 
a point where half an hour's climb shows Mont Blanc in 
all its splendour, filling the extreme point of the southern 
horizon. Farther on, the queer little town of Chaux de Fonds, 
in a valley which seems lifted away from the rest of the 
world, is a vast manufactory of watches. One enters upon it 
through labyrinths of tunnels, to find a conglomerate of little 
workshops, wherein every creature belonging to the place is 
fitting cog-wheels, coiling springs and adjusting regulators. 
Instead of being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, the 
lucky Chaux-de-Fondser comes into the world with a silver 
watch in his pocket. Timepieces are so cheap that children 
could buy them instead of bons-bons. Locle, farther on, is a 
prettier spot given to the same traffic, and with two side 
issues in the Saut-du-Doubs, a pretty waterfall dashing be- 
tween extremely sharp cliffs nearly five hundred feet high, 
and the long narrow lake of Brenets, whose deep green waters 
stretch through a gorge of splintered rock at its outlet. The 



140 .A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

colour is like the wonderful green of the Merced lUver in the 
Yosemite. 

We were for a long time puzzled to know how horses and 
carriages got over the steep grades which separate the main 
streets. It looked as if they must be helped from one level 
to another with derricks, or lowered on toboggan slides ; no 
right-minded quadruped, except a goat, could ever allow 
himself to be cajoled into any of these ladder-like cross-cuts. 
If there were more horses in the town, one could fancy a 
special group for every terrace ; but there were too few for 
any such hypothesis. After the omnipresence of the Parisian 
coachman and his animal, it is a relief to be able to count on 
your fingers all that could be met in a mid-day walk. For 
one waggon of milk or bread or vegetables drawn in the usual 
way, there are ten pulled along by bloused men or aproned 
women. Even the postman pushes a little two-wheeled cart 
before him on his daily rounds. Life is so peaceful, so un- 
hurried, that they probably see no reason for rushing through 
it on horseback instead of afoot. 

Yet it has its little bustle here . too. At noon and niofht, 
when the children and workpeople are returning home, there 
is quite a fine hubbub of laughter and voices, and hob-nailed 
shoes. In the evening this almost becomes noise. Young 
men go by singing two or three part choruses with loud 
lusty voices; the children chatter and shriek like so many 
magpies ; the postillions driving from the late trains to 
the Hotel du Faucon or the Grand Hotel du Lac crack 
their whips like a regiment of Cossacks. The town-crier 
walks briskly down a side street, and after a rataplan upon 
the drum announces a sale to-morrow, or an auction, or a lost 
child, or a coming circus, and with another rataplan marches 
off again. Mothers from upper windows exchange confi- 
dences with other mothers on the side-walk, both meanwhile 
knitting on the long white stockings which are here part of 



NEUCHATEL. I4I 

every good woman's birthright — and very good legs they 
have to fill them. Swallows in dark flights go twittering 
shrilly about the tall roofs ; the heavy wooden shutters are 
thrown back to let the houses open their eyes a little ; the 
green waters of the lake are gay with pleasure-boats, and the 
broad promenade on its borders is full of easy-going idlers 
after the busy hours of the day. But, as in Jean Ingelow's 
verse, all these sounds and sights — 

"Like ringdoves, make not quiet less." 

It is still as reposeful as if every one were in bed and asleep. 
To all English-speaking people, but more especially to 
Americans, the little town will always have an added 
interest from the fact that so many of its folk are — 

"Bons Amis 
De Jean Louis Agassiz ;" 

and that it was here the beloved and brilliant naturalist 
spent his novitiate in the order of science. The first four- 
teen years of his professional work were passed as lecturer 
in one of the departments of the College ; and it was during 
this time that his observations among the great glaciers of 
the neighbourhood began to make his attainments known to 
the scientific world. There is still preserved the valuable 
cabinet of Natural History, collected by him during his 
connection with the institution ; and many an incident is 
yet fresh in the popular memory, which would prove the 
same devotion to science that caused him afterwards to 
decline a lucrative engagement on the plea that he " could 
not afford to make money." 

Let me remark, en passant, that if you have any desire to 
be a little ill, as a sort of experiment, there is no better place 
than Neuchatel. You can have the sympathy of a most kindlv 
landlord, and a good bed in a good room, looking out upon a 



142 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

sunny courtyard, with a fountain in the centre, where splash- 
ing of water among the goldfishes, and the singing of birds 
among flowers, shall be the only sounds to hear. And you 
can have a physician whose clear keen eyes and cheering 
smile will do you as much good as his medicines, which 
are infallible. What a pity that it is wrong to be personal ; 
and that I cannot therefore tell you that the room is to 
be found in the clean small Hotel du Faucon, and the good 
Samaritan in Dr. Ernest de Eeynier. For to a stranger in a 
strange land, these little items might sometimes be of interest. 

We found before leaving Neuchatel how the horses actually 
came down from the hilltops. They are harnessed to wag- 
gons, pieces of plain board are fastened under the wheels, 
and the dead weight of the loaded cart keeps the animal from 
turning double somersaults into the valley. Be it understood, 
however, that this is only possible on some of the graded 
roads, not the steep ones. It is yet a profound mystery how 
they are ever hauled back again. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 
BERNE. 

At every mile of the way as one dips into Switzerland, the 
surroundings become more and more picturesque. The great 
roofs of the houses grow larger and darker ; outside galleries 
creep under the eaves with clumsy stairways leading to them ; 
stables for cattle and living rooms for their owners are 
enclosed within the same four walls. Vineyards planted on 
narrow terraces raised over stone embankments run up the 
steep slopes of the hills to the rocky buttresses above, from 
which the mountains spring into the upper air. Small fields 
of grain, and bits of pasture, fill every gap between the lowland 
forests of pine and fir. In the sheltered valleys, wheat of an 
unusual height grows yellow in the sun, with blue corn- 
flowers fringing the edges. In the house-gardens among the 
hamlets there are everywhere masses of white and red roses, 
trimmed like trees into one straight bare stem, with a luxu- 
riant richness of bloom on top. The mountain streams dash 
themselves down precipitous rocky channels in a torrent of 
liquid malachite with deep emerald streaks against the white 
foam. Now and again a tiny lake lies darkly shining in 
shadow of the cliffs, or a gorge like some of the Colorado 
canons gives back the roar of the flying train in thunderous 
echoes. Everywhere there are tunnels which toss one like 
a shuttlecock out of light into darkness, and from darkness 
back to light again. And constantly the glimpses of distant 
peaks behind the veiling of cloud which shrouds their brows, 
become more and more majestic. 

n3 



144 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

In the fields and valleys, as in France, the women and 
men work side by side. Digging with long spades, weeding, 
haymaking, binding the vines to their trellises on the rocky 
slopes, there is no material difference, save that of dress, to 
show that they are of another calibre. They are as brown as 
the men, and as large, and as lusty, and as ugly. As ugly ? 
They are uglier. Only for a certain comeliness in the female 
face and form which is never exacted from the male, at least 
of the human species. But these large-boned, swarth-browed, 
too often bearded amazons, who stride over the ploughed land 
like troopers, and leap a four or five foot stream like spring- 
boks, have lost whatever traditions of grace belong to the 
sex. Of course there are exceptions ; and at a distance, in 
the holiday dress of the different cantons, like this of Berne, 
with its white chemisette, black velvet bodice, and silver 
chains, they are really pretty to look at. But do not push 
curiosity too closely. 

Berne is always interesting. The novelty of construc- 
tion in the queer old houses, the wide smiling beauty of the 
modern boulevards and squares, and the wonderful curve of 
the river, which almost forms an island of the peninsula upon 
which the town is built, make one's heart glad at the first 
glance. Something of solidity and strength in the aspect of 
the place and people recalls involuntarily the history of its 
old renown in arms, when under Eudolph Erlach and other 
valiant leaders it repulsed every effort to rob it of freedom, 
and remained independent in the midst of feudalism. Like 
most Swiss towns, it is built on an upper and lower level ; 
the one with its streets, houses, and river running in part 
entirely under the bridges of the other. It is beautifully 
quaint and irregular. All the streets are simply wide-paved 
roadways, with a swift current from the Aar running through 
a shallow canal, either open or covered, in the centre ; and 
spouting at every hundred feet into the round stone basin of 



BERNE. 145 

a fountain from pipes at the foot of a statne- crowned figure. 
About these fountains the washing and cleaning of the city- 
go on from Monday morning to Saturday night. The lower 
floors of the substantial four-story houses open directly from 
the roadway in large round arches, immensely heavy and low, 
under which the side-walks run in a series of arcades. The 
shops, which almost invariably take up the ground floors, are 
as dark as a pocket, but the people are so honest that you 
might buy with your eyes shut. Here and there, these cool, 
dim cloisters of side-walks go up a few steps, or down ; twist 
suddenly ten feet to the right, or ten feet to the left ; grow 
wide, grow narrow, or stop altogether. Never being able to 
see where you are going for more than a few rods, you blunder 
toward your destination or away from it, as fortune is kind 
or fickle. Nor is the middle of the carriage-road a much safer 
guide. Sometimes in mid-career it runs plump against some 
remnant of the Middle Ages in the shape of a clock-tower or 
the massive buttress of some ancient dwelling. Part of the 
thoroughfare will flow on through the archway which usually 
pierces this picturesque obstruction ; part will turn the corner 
and meander ofi* on the other side ; part will lose itself wholly, 
never to be found again. You pick up the thread of your 
wanderings as you may, and journey on. There can never 
be too many of these irregularities, for each is a delight in 
this straight, conventional, commonplace world. As for roofs 
and chimneys, there can be nothing so rich as Berne. The 
eaves project ten or twelve feet in huge balconies, curved 
slightly on the edges like Chinese pagodas ; the chimneys rise 
in greyish-white stacks from the dull red tiles, high and low, 
pointed like steeples, gabled like house-tops, carved, curved, 
plain, in a forest of grotesque forms. The sameness which the- 
unbroken lines of the facades upon the street would naturally 
give without any relief from side-walk or trees, is modified by 
these outlines into something rich and attractive. 

K 



146 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

Outside every window is a small iron railinj^, which forms 
a back to the window-seat within. These are decorated with 
flowers, with scarlet cushions, and with brio-ht ornaments, so 
that the effect is full of animation. Under the side-walk 
arches are broad seats of stone and wood, where sometimes 
goods are displayed, but oftenest the busy Haus-Frau sits pull- 
ing wool, making mattresses, or knitting. Such a world of 
knitters ! Walking the streets, gossiping with the neighbours, 
watching the children, rocking the cradle, the Bernese woman 
knits, knits, knits, like the Tricoteuses of the French Eevolu- 
tion. Only there are no tragedies woven into these stockings. 
For amusement's sake, we once counted the number of people 
in the little park by the cathedral on a warm June afternoon. 
Out of a hundred and nineteen, a hundred and nine were knit- 
ting like machines, and four of the remaining ten were tourists. 

We shall always remember Berne with love and gratitude, 
because it gave us the first glimpse of the real glory of 
Switzerland. We had been wandering all day from the Bear 
Pits to the Federal Palace, among the wonderful old wood 
carvings of the Cathedral, and along the fine promenade of 
the Little Kampart. Tired of novelties, we were sitting down 
to rest on the river-bank, where the beautiful lofty arches of 
the New Bridge span the rushing torrent by a bound of a 
hundred feet into the air. Just below, the broad ferry-boat, 
swinging at the end of its long chain, crossed backward and 
forward with its load of town and peasant folk, the brown 
young ferryman steering with his hand on the long tiller 
astern. Far up and down the steep banks, lovely fields and 
drooping acacias hung above the green water, and surrounded 
the pretty chalet-like houses, as if to prevent their toppling 
into the stream. The sky above was glowing with intense 
summer heat, only tempered by the refreshing air blowing 
from the heights across the river, while a thick grey cloud 
covered the horizon. Suddenly this lifted, like a curtain; 



BERNE. 147 

and there, set in an arch of brilliant azure, were three peaks 
of the Alps, radiant, pure, shining, more white than the 
clouds above them, more dazzling than any other enchant- 
ment God has given to man on earth. They shone in a cleft 
between two dark heights, sombre and fir-crowned, and one 
could no more look upon their glory than upon the sun at 
noonday. In whatever part of the world these transcendent 
witnesses of the majesty of the Creator rise, they usurp the 
soul to the exclusion of every other emotion. One feels no 
longer heat or cold, loneliness or companionship ; something 
divine and sustaining takes hold of the immortal in us ; and 
in the glow and greatness of the impulse which sways us, we 
are conscious of having been made in His image and likeness. 
The vision lasted not long, and faded again beneath a down- 
dropping cloud as swiftly as it had appeared. But the spot 
which held it for those few breathless minutes will always 
have its especial place in remembrance. 

It was at Berne, too, that we first saw a sight which we 
found often repeated afterward in many Swiss towns, the 
harnessing of a dog and a man, or a dog and a woman, be- 
tween the shafts of small waggons, instead of the more costly 
horse. The dog always seemed to enjoy his position and 
make sport of it ; it would be untrue to say as much for the 
two-footed animal beside him ; yet the faces as a rule are so 
expressionless, that it would be hard to judge. At least if 
there is little enthusiasm here, there is less discontent. And 
how the two yoked creatures, with their high-piled load of 
fagots or vegetables, would run over the roughly paved streets, 
as if they were smoothest asphalt pavements ! It was as if 
there were no such attributes as tired backs and aching 
arms known to human nature. I wonder if some such heroic 
measure would remove them from our side of the water. 
Or would this Swiss movement cure need Swiss muscles to 
work upon ? 



148 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

The old fathers of the town must have been a jolly set of 
burghers, with a turn for practical jokes. Instead of the 
graceful forms, classic or romantic, with which other cities 
ornament their fountains, those light-hearted patriarchs chose 
new models. They preferred the ridiculous rather than the 
sublime ; so through all the town, in street and market- 
place, we have the fantastic instead of the sentimental. 
Here is the Pied Piper, with his baby train pressing after 
in hot haste. Here is the Ogre Croquemitaine, with one 
child half down his capacious throat, and his pockets bulging 
with a dozen others who are to complete his tender meal. 
Here is the Great Bear in full panoply of helmet, shield, 
and spear, ready to protect the burg of his adoption. Here 
are Archers and Lion-tamers, Griffins and Hobgoblins, with 
every shape of grinning gargoyle from which water can be 
poured. They all seem in place here in those quaint, long, 
twisted thoroughfares, with the red-cushioned window-ledges 
brightening the old grey houses, and the dark side- walks 
hidden behind their thick stone arches as if they had retired 
to sleep. The figure of the. Bear, from which Berne takes 
its name, is blended in every conceivable way with its art 
and architecture. It is as omnipresent as Joan of Arc at 
Orleans, or the Wolf in ancient Rome. It is carved in wood, 
moulded in bronze, modelled in marble, baked in gingerbread, 
boiled in candy. A favourite toy is a bear fulfilling some of 
the functions of human beings ; painting at an easel, teach- 
ing school, sweeping floors, hammering shoes ; and the 
popular bon-bon is a white sugar bear with a red pepper- 
ment tongue, furiously dashing across a chocolate field. The 
eyes of little children follow this coveted tit-bit with awe 
and longing, while even the elders regard it with proud 
complacency. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

INTERLAKEN. 

When the debt of gratitude the world owes to the monks 
of the Middle Ages is finally acknowledged, there will be 
found in it few items of more importance to the happi- 
ness and elevation of mankind than that work of the 
Augustinians, who accomplished the task of creating a 
little foothold of land between the lakes of Thun and Brienz, 
about the beginning of the thirteenth century. To have left 
Interlaken as a heritage to mankind is to have merited the 
blessing of posterity for ever. '' The Lovely Little Plain," as 
the common folk who came after the monks were dead and 
gone christened it, is so very lovely. Set between two steep 
spurs of mountain chains, which rise in rugged precipices and 
overhanging pine forests in almost perpendicular heights 
above the valley, it looks through the dark gorge of the 
Lauterbrunnen straight upon the dazzling beauty of that 
Virgin of the Alps, the Jungfrau. The rich soil, which has 
been washed for centuries down the slopes by winter storm 
and spring freshet, sustains a luxuriance of vegetation almost 
tropical in its variety and strength. Every house nestles in 
a wilderness of roses and vines ; the hedges are masses of 
flowers ; the streets arches of overhanging boughs, which 
frame the wild grandeur of more distant views. The exquisite 
country roads wind through fields of wheat taller than one's 
head, through small market gardens as attractive as pleasure 

grounds, through pastures sweet with the breath of newly- 

149 



150 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. • 

mown hay, with always before, behind, above, the glory of 
the mountains. The swift, narrow river runs in curves below 
its rustic bridges at the very foot of the Harderwand, and in 
every direction forest paths lead tow^ard marvellous views from 
seemingly inaccessible points. 

How differently one understands Auerbach's " On the 
Heights " after seeing one such Alpine village. Yonder, high 
up — so high that it looks as if only the flight of a bird could 
ever reach, or the foot of a bird ever rest upon it — is a farm- 
house, with its fields stretching up the perpendicular rifts in 
the side of the precipice, fastened by some marvel of gravita- 
tion on that airy plateau. With the glass you will see that 
many of its acres are planted between rows of stakes driven 
in parallel lines, to keep the upper levels from falling in a 
landslide upon the lower. You wdll see, too, the slow moving 
forms of cows and sheep no larger than stones grazing 
behind the low stone walls, which serve as barricades between 
them and destruction. What repose, what isolation must be 
the lot of those who look from that dizzy eminence down 
upon the valley below. What silent sobriety of thought, 
what close intimacy with the moods of nature, that lonely, 
breezy atmosphere must bring to those who breathe it. And 
what supernal beauty of outlook to feed upon. How could 
one bred in that pure, free space, like an eagle's eyrie, 
ever be satisfied with the noise and dust of this busy scene 
below. 

Meantime the busy scene below is very charming for those 
who have not been born with the instincts of a chamois. 
There is the Hoheweg, passing first between its little and 
big chalets, with the most entrancing small shops on the 
ground floor, and overhead, under the big eaves, such quaint 
carved galleries of wood, and little windows, with diamond 
panes, as one has been used to see in Swdss carvings. Some 
of the fronts are queerly etched in figures of birds and beasts, 



INTERLAKEN. I 5 I 

or engraved with maxims and proverbs in large German text. 
Some are intricately adorned with open-work scrolls, cut by 
hand in the long winter evenings. All have their window- 
sills full of flowering plants, and their porches shaded with 
vines. Sometimes a stiff little garden, with the bushes cut 
into unnatural shapes, or trained after unusual fashions, is at 
the front or side. Sometimes the door is below, and some^ 
times again above the narrow side path. There is a constant 
going and coming of vehicles, from the big diligence of the 
hotels to the small donkey cart of the peasants. You meet 
countrymen with a bunch of Edelweiss or pine-needles in 
the band of their felt hats ; peasant girls in the pretty costume 
of the Bernese cantons ; town folk with their heavy hobnailed 
shoes and thick woollen dresses ; and strangers from all parts 
of the world. It is a perfect Babel of tongues and tempera- 
ments. Everybody seems to speak at least two — French with 
some other language as a patois — except the English, who 
deliver themselves in their several dialects, with such 
wonderful alternations of broadness and flatness in pronun- 
ciation, as it is rarely given one to hearken to. If there is 
any rule at all to regulate the sounds of vowels and con- 
sonants in Anglo-Saxon, the average British tourist should 
be arraigned before some moral court of justice for the crime 
of Use majesU. One's ear has to be cultivated as carefully 
to discover the meaning of their unknown tongue as to 
translate any of the foreign idioms. Whatever dreadful 
arrogance of custom or straining after effect has produced 
this result it would be impossible to determine ; but certain 
I am that Dan Chaucer to-day would be quite as intelligible 
to the majority of his hearers as his degenerate descendant. 

But to return to the Hoheweg, or the Main street, if you 
prefer it that way. Soon it broadens into the centre of a 
half-mile open space; a wide lawn and park on one side, 
extending to the nearer mountains, the Breitlauenen and 



152 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

Suleck ; a line of goodly hotels on the other, gay with every 
form of modern prettiness, balconies, and towers, and gardens 
full of bloom and fragrance. Thick hedges of shrubbery 
inside wrought iron railings separate them from the street, 
and give a coquettish air of seclusion ; the garden paths 
wind between fountains and arches ; the warm, soft air is 
deliciously fresh and sweet with odours. Everywhere still a 
world of people, in windows, on piazzas, walking, driving, 
lounging under the trees, but always with eyes turned 
toward the deep gorge between the hills, within which 
shines the Jungfrau. This is the pivot around which the 
whole of Interlaken revolves. Every house front turns to it, 
every window faces it, every path and lane leads to some 
turn from which a fresh beauty may be discovered in it. 
And no wonder, for it would be hard to conceive a fairer 
sight. The majestic irregularity of its outline ; the sharp 
line of black precipice which divides its two great plateaux, 
and the glory of its wonderful summit shining under its 
eternal crown of snow, lifted like a radiant cloud above the 
world, make it an endless joy to look upon. The exquisite 
beauty of this smiling valley, which forms the foreground of 
the picture, intensifies its lofty silence, and makes its im- 
pressiveness a thousand-fold more marked than if it arose 
from a scene of desolation. This is in truth one of the 
secrets of the enchantment of all Swiss landscapes. The 
valleys are everywhere nests of loveliness, with a beauty of 
fitness greater than any to which mere art could ever attain ; 
and the sombre grandeur of the mountains rises from them 
with an effect which of themselves alone they could never 
attain. 

With a vision like this before one's eyes, alas! how hard 
it is to keep to the main street, even when there is a casino 
upon it lower down, full of arcades and pavilions, with read- 
ing rooms and dancing halls, spacious terraces and verandahs. 



INTERLAKEN". 1 53 

with lanes and shady alleys fit for lovers' promenades. When 
it has an orchestra besides, which gives three concerts a day : 
one in the morning from 7 to 8, while the interesting invalids 
of the Kursaal take their wholesome potions of goat's milk 
whey ; one from 2 to 4, while the little children and giddy 
youth dance upon the sward and platforms about the band 
stand ; one from 8 to 10 in the evening, when their gracious 
mightinesses, the guests of the different hotels, in all the 
undress of evening toilette, languidly drink the strains with 
bumpers of beer and bottles of red wine at the same time. 
And it is wonderful how much, in spite of their languor, 
their gracious mightinesses can drink in the course of an 
evening. Farther on yet there are more gardens, more hotels, 
more parks ; and at last in a green corner by itself the old 
whitewashed convent, delivered over now to the uses of earth 
instead of those of heaven. The quaint old church beside it, 
with its weather-beaten bell tower and spire like an extin- 
guisher, is interesting for other reasons than even its great 
age. The tower rises in the centre of one side, a lofty choir 
and lower nave stretching from it north and south. Two 
doors open side by side at the top of the rude fiight of steps 
which leads to it. One gives access to the Anglican church, 
which holds its services in the choir ; the other to the Roman 
Catholic chapel, which celebrates mass in the nave. On the 
other side, two similar doors give entrance to the French 
Protestants and the Scottish Reformers respectively, while 
a Russian place of worship is in process of construction close 
by. So that four, one may say five, different religious 
congregations worship, each according to its lights, under 
what may be called the same roof. If there is as much 
Christian charity in the hearts of the people, Interlaken is 
indeed to be envied. 

Like many of our own mountain towns, this one main 
street forms almost the entire village. One or two side lanes 



154 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

leading off to different hamlets east and west, and a few 
scattered farmhouses or pensions, make up the whole. It 
is not in this respect unlike Bethlehem or Jefferson in the 
White Mountains, or little Manitou in the shadow of Pike's 
Peak. What want then is congenital in the American 
nature, of what fair grace of imagination or artistic impulse 
lias it been shorn, that make the results springing from 
these similar conditions so opposite ? Bethlehem is as 
commonplace in its ugliness, aside from its beautiful situa- 
tion, as any collection of comfortable dwellings can possibly 
be. Its broad side- walk, and long plain street, and dreadful 
square houses, large and small, all freshly painted, all un- 
compromisingly respectable, are detestable. There is an air 
of living on parade about it that knocks one's sensitive nerves 
as much out of tune as striking one's " funny bone." There 
is no softness, no sweetness, no ideality about any portion of 
the impression it makes upon a stranger. Yet it has had 
every advantage that greater opportunity, wider knowledge, 
and more wealth could give over this people. The proprietors 
of its hotels have been in a position to know what art has 
done in other places ; the inhabitants of its cottages have 
spent money enough to make their homes attractive instead 
of repellent. What is wrong ? There is not a poor shed in 
this valley which has not an art value, and which is not 
soothing to every cultivated sense. Their soft tints blend 
with the masses of clinging greenery about them; their 
shelving gables and wooden balconies — no matter how rude 
— their massive eaves and sweeping dark roofs, and timbered 
walls, are full of a refinement which is meat and drink to 
the imagination. And there cannot be proper spiritual 
health where this element of the imagination is so wholly 
neglected as with us. Worldly possessions and material 
progress are good things, but they can only become great 
when they are vitalised by some element of higher intelli- 



INTERLAKEN. 1 55 

gence. What sort of civilisation is that which accepts Queen 
Anne cottages with impossible zigzags and useless corner 
fireplaces as the highest expression of fitness and elegance 
it has yet acquired ? One little village like this of Interlaken, 
put where the people could imbibe its homely and practical 
lesson, would be as great an education to our people as the 
founding of a national university. It is not our intellects 
that need awaking ; it is our souls. 

Whenever the kind Fate who spins the thread of life brings 
you to "The Lovely Little Plain/' pray for a rainy day. 
There will be fine ones in plenty when you will trudge over 
the mountain to the quaintly beautiful little village of Unter- 
seen, with its old, old houses and its fine views of the peaks 
of the Monch and the Eiger. You will climb to the ruins 
of Goldswyl, and look down at the gloomy depths of the 
Faulensee ; or to Bouigen, concealed amid its orchards ; or to 
the desolate castle of Unspunnen ; or to the Heimwehfluh and 
the Hugen. And you will investigate the treasures of the 
small shops, with their ivory carvings and wood, their Alpine 
cowbells of silver and gold, their alpenstocks and photographs, 
and their many bewildering temptations for the purse. All 
this hay you will make while the sun shines — but none the 
less continue to pray for a rainy day. 

For then all through the morning and late afternoon the 
warm, moist air will be more heavy than ever with odours of 
the woods and gardens, and below the dark precipices of the 
mountains the pale vapour of mist rises like incense before 
those altars of God, half hiding, half revealing their grandeur. 
You will walk between the showers, for the porous, sandy 
soil scarce holds the water while it is falling, and five minutes 
after one could promenade in ball slippers. The band in the 
Kursaal will play as usual, while you sip your coffee or your 
beer, and rest between two expeditions. All the world of 
fashion will be abroad, for rain frightens no one here any 



156 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

more than in Ireland. Then suddenly as you stroll along 
about three or four o'clock, there will fall a great glory from 
on high round about you ; and lo ! the Jungfrau, in all her 
splendour, shining between the dark gorge of the hills, and 
the mists, like aspirations, ascending into the blue heaven, 
and a dazzle of freshness and light everywhere. It is the 
most heavenly transformation. Your breath goes in a spasm 
of wonder and delight. Your eyes fill, and your heart also, 
in passionate regret that the dear world at home is not near 
to share and to heighten the ecstasy of feeling. And it will 
probably be that same evening, hours after the valley is in 
shadow^ and the faint, last light is creeping higher and 
higher up the gloomy sides of the Breitlauenen, that the 
white brow of the Virgin will take on a faint rosy flush like 
the heart of a blush rose, and you will for the first time know 
the magic of the Alpen glow. 



CHAPTER XX. 

LUCERNE, 

Lucerne is almost too well-bred. Both the place and the 
people have an air of being always in full dress. The 
promenade along the quays is so elegant, the hotels behind 
it so fine — and so dear — the ladies and gentlemen who patro- 
nise them so very fashionable, that it strikes terror instead 
of delight into the heart of the modest, sentimental traveller. 
Before you are conscious of its beauty, you are overpowered 
by its deportment. There is nothing individual about it at 
first sight. It might be a French town, or an Italian, as 
well as a Swiss. There is no personal flavour to identify it. 
So the first day of your advent finds you ill at ease ; half 
afraid you have made a mistake ; wholly convinced that you 
will correct it by flying away next morning. The ocean 
of English, too, submerges you. In the best hotel, the 
Schweizerhoff, there are only British names on the register, 
British voices in the halls, British eyes and eye-glasses to 
gaze upon you, as your small self and smaller properties 
descend from the omnibus before the grand staircase. And 
that impassive British stare is so trying when it goes 
travelling abroad ! 

But the dinner is very good, and the dining-hall beautiful, 
looking out in the sunset on the lovely flower garden upon 
which the large windows open ; and afterwards the orchestra 
plays among the palms and rhododendrons, while twilight 
fades over the lake, and the wonderful outline of Mount 

157 



158 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

Pilatus cuts like an etching into the luminous sky. Those 
who have seen the Bufa of Zacatecas, and who will imagine 
it increased ten-fold, twenty-fold, can have some idea of this 
towering, sombre ridge, as it looms over the city at night- 
fall. So you begin to grow, if not more content, at least less 
uneasy. You are satisfied to wait and see what the morrow 
will bring forth. And the morrow dawns like a revelation. 
The air is translucent ; the wide esplanade by the lake side 
laughs in the royal wealth of sunshine. The limpid, dazzling 
water bathes the feet of the mountains ; the blue haze of 
distance clothes their majesty in such tender loveliness that 
one's heart goes out to them in love and longing; the pretty 
bright steamers skim like darting flies to every point of the 
compass. The ladies come down to their morning coffee in 
light muslin or unobtrusive foulard ; the gentlemen stamp 
in with hobnailed shoes and sturdy calves showing under 
knickerbockers ; the pretty girl who is your vis-d-vis un- 
bends in a kindly word of greeting. A hundred different 
plans for a hundred different forms of sensible adventure are 
in the air, and you can choose between them. 

It is Ruskin, and not Murray or Baedeker, that the tourist 
should carry near his heart in going through Switzerland. 
It is he who is the Prophet of the Mountains ; they are but 
the signboards. He has caught the spirit of their language ; 
they, in their poor patois, but stumble over the words. The 
poorest copy of his delightful chapters is better than all the 
medley of maps and facts within the brave red covers of the 
others, even when they grade your admiration for you before- 
hand, as they do your purse, with one, two, or three stars. 
For what doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world of 
names and statistics, and lose the soul of the wonders they 
designate ? What matter if he know from the rising of the 
sun to the going down thereof the height and depth of every 
peak and precipice, if he only learn to recognise them as so 



LUCERKE. 159 

many feet of rock or snow, and is satisfied to remember 
them by dimensions instead of heart throbs. 

Personally I have a grudge against Baedeker, he is so 
peremptory and omnipresent. There is no getting away 
from him if he once joins your compan}^ Your route is 
laid out like the list of a washerwoman with every article 
counted and checked. So many days, so m.any places; so 
much money, so much good cheer. Here you are to turn to 
the right, there to the left. This spot you are to look upon 
at sunrise, and the other at sunset. For Heaven's sake, is 
there nothing to be left to chance or inspiration ! Is there 
no loophole for that delicious feeling of satisfaction which 
warms your very soul when it seems that you yourself unaided 
and unguided have stumbled upon some rare and unknown 
spot ? Suppose one begins his Swiss travels at the opposite 
end, or at one of the sides, instead of the route laid out for 
him. Is he to go backward or sideways like a crab in order 
to keep up with his guide, philosopher, and friend, Baedeker ? 
A fig for all red covers ! Let us be our own couriers. 

There will not be the slightest danger of coming to grief. 
Go through Switzerland as you will, there is nothing but 
beauty before you. In the most out of the way and distant 
bypath, as well as in the highways of travel, there is satis- 
faction for the senses, uplifting for the spirit. Take that 
little valley of the Noisy Brook, into and out of which we 
sped yesterday on the way to more famous scenes. What 
a revelation of picturesque novelty it was. An entrance 
through one of those steep gloomy chasms, through which 
the river alone has been able to force a passage; then a 
sudden widening as if the rent walls were drawn backward, 
and in the space between the loveliest fields and meadows, 
in such bright light green that the world seems in gala 
dress. Scattered among them the homes of herdsmen and 
farmers. On one side, up to the very top of the dizzy height, 



l6o A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

the mountain pastures were set like emeralds in the dull 
framing of fir trees; tiny chalets of whitewashed stone and 
dark wood, with wide projecting roofs, dotted the steep slopes 
where it appeared impossible for human foot to tread. On 
the other, a perpendicular wall of rock, straight as El Capitan 
in the Yosemite, rose rampart-like at the edge of the rocky- 
way, and down its black sides shot the silver arrows of 
numberless cataracts, all broken into white mist before they 
reached the undulating floor of the earth. The murmur 
and splash of these falling waters were everywhere ; and the 
beautiful, filmy waves of spray, blown like smoke through 
the air, sweetened the glaring summer day to coolness. In 
the fields the grass was ripe, and every being capable of work 
in the hamlet was abroad cutting and tossing the fragrant 
harvest. Even the short, broad-bladed scythes, and queer 
three-pronged wooden forks, gave the fields an unusual aspect, 
and changed them from the well-beloved meadows of home, 
sweet and odorous in memory. With just such implements 
the fore fat!] ers of this people, a dozen generations back, must 
have tilled these happy slopes, while the same eternal heights 
looked down upon them. By the doors of wayside cottages 
old women and little children sit making bobbin lace, or 
embroidering those wonderful bits of fine needlework for 
which the country is famous. It must be the healthy 
activity of so much outdoor life which saves the people from 
blindness as a race, when one considers the infinite care 
and delicacy of sight necessary for the work, which occupies 
them through the long winter, of watchmaking, wood-carv- 
ing, and lace ; but so far we have seen few weak eyes, and no 
glasses. To be sure, the houses, large and small, are riddled 
with windows, and mountain air for six months in the year 
is a grand corrective for the seclusion of the other six; yet 
the fact remains astonishing. 

Now it might not have spoiled our pleasure to know that 



LUCEENE. l6l 

this enchanted valley was waiting us beyond a turn in the 
narrow road ; that the cascade which broke in a sheaf of 
white foam from the eternal ice-fields of the glaciers was in 
some respects the most wonderful of all in Switzerland; that 
the rocky fortresses which barred the entrance lifted their 
battlements two thousand feet nearer heaven than the spot 
our own profane feet were treading, and that all this divine 
surprise of beauty and majesty had been named and cata- 
logued long ago. But at least it would have moderated our 
transports, which are yet in that happy state of enthusiasm 
and astonishment which Johnson endeavours to snub by 
defining as " novelty acting upon ignorance." This is a much 
better frame of mind than indifference, the genesis of which 
might be stated as " novelty acting upon stupidity." Ignor- 
ance may be easily corrected, but stupidity is a congenital 
deformity. 

But to return to our city. Day by day of the too short 
week you have left for it, new delights spring up about you. 
Bands of students on a vacation ramble, with flowers in their 
hats, come through the bright streets to the swinging chorus 
of a college song; a company of school-bo.ys, armed with 
alpenstocks, answer with hurrahs from the deck of a passing 
boat. Some one of a thousand forms of sympathy with nature 
inebriates you and fascinates, until the plan of departure 
would be indefinitely postponed, if will could force necessity. 
Behind the width and grandeur of the boulevards come the^ 
dear, narrow, homely streets of the ancient city, with their 
wealth of history and romance. In one rises the old church 
of St. Leodegard, rich in stained glass, and sculptured stalls, 
and rarely carven walls, and one of the finest organs in the 
world. Whoever has heard one of the concerts given by the 
Kappelmeisters each evening during the season, has added 
a new memory to those that will live for ever. In another 
spot, that most wonderful national monument, the Lion of 

L 



1 62 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

Lucerne, lies in his lofty nicbe among tlie rocks over the 
pine-bordered lake. There are numberless places, full of 
interest as relics of old customs : the Kornmarkt ; the Gothic 
fountain that has stood for 400 years in the Weinmarkt; 
the Stadthaus, with its venerable portraits of the magistrates 
who in time past ruled the fortunes of the city. There, too, 
is the fascinating Spreuerbriicke, which has come down from 
the fifteenth century, with its thirty-six pictures of the Dance 
of Death on the beams under its quaint roof. With all these 
to study, as well as the fortifications on the hill built in tlie 
year 1409, and the round tower below, which used to be part 
of the ancient ramparts, how sorry you will be when im- 
placable time bids you say good-bye to Lucerne. 

There are many delightful spots wherein one may find 
relief from the rushing maelstrom of summer travel between 
this and Interlaken. The little lake of Brienz is one. Aside 
from Giessbach, which between its cascade and mountain has 
acquired continental celebrity, there are tranquil, wholesome 
retreats, perched on the slope of charming foothills above the 
crystal clear green water, which have all the inspiration of 
mountain air, with the quiet which is its best nerve tonic. 
Such are Bonigen and Goldswyl, and the lovely shore of 
Iseltwald, and pretty Brienz itself. Such, too, is each little 
hamlet along that wonderful pass of Brtinig-Meiringen, at 
the head of the long valley of the Aare : Lungern with its 
pretty chalets nestled in green plains at foot of the moun- 
tains; Brtinig with its cascades and clusters of sharp peaks; 
Sarnen with its historic record, its Landenberg, and the 
beautiful walks amid its fir-bordered heights. Each one of 
these can be made a point of departure half-a-dozen times a 
day for all the prominent resorts which surround them within 
the limits of a ten or twelve hours' excursion, by the small 
lake steamers or ordinary trains. The prices charged for 
travel are wondrously small. 



CHAPTER XXL 

THE RIGHL 

If it were ever allowed to make earthly happiness a theme 

for prayerful petition, or to storm the throne of grace for 

other than spiritual consolation, the good Christian might 

certainly incorporate with his orisons the desire to make the 

ascent of the Righi if he has never yet been so fortunate, or 

to do it again if the experience has been granted him before. 

Can it be, after all, wholly an earthly happiness, a simple 

piece of material well-being, which sets one's heart and soul 

beating in such unison with all good and great thoughts, 

which lifts one for the time being out of the narrow and 

sordid pressure of life into communion with the eternal ? 

Let me give you the data of facts, and you can decide the 

metaphysical question for yourselves. 

The morning was as exquisite as midsummer could make 

it when we sailed across the pale green waters of the Vier- 

waldstatter, set between lovely shores, which rise gently to 

its framework of smooth and rounded hills as if they had been 

graded into undulating heights and hollows. Beyond rose the 

mountains ; on one side the black and awful crest of Pilatus 

cutting into the blue sky like the jagged fin of some mighty 

monster ; on the other, the lofty and beautiful outline of the 

Righi, abrupt as a precipice on the nearer edge, sloping in 

fine massive terraces upon the other. In the foreground the 

velvet richness of grass and artistic grouping of trees gave 

an efi'ect of lawns and parks about the villas they surrounded ; 

163 



164 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

behind, with here and there a glint of snow upon their sum- 
raits, the chain of mighty peaks, softened by the azure haze 
of summer, melted into the horizon in all the exquisite 
gradations of purple and amethyst that only mountains can 
assume. The little villages on the way were as picturesque as 
if some trained and benign hand had placed each in the spot 
where it should be most precious to artistic sense ; the broad, 
dark roofs gathered about the square, grey tower, with its 
tapering, conical spire, like a flock of ravens. The landing- 
place at Vitznau is one of the prettiest of these hamlets. 
Every house is in its own bower of red and white roses. 
There is deep shade of walnut and spreading beech-trees; 
the hay was fresh in the fields ; the potato patches a mass of 
blossoms. Even the little Acre of God around the church 
tower had none of the grimness which usually surrounds the 
place of death ; it was a garden of bloom and fragrance, with 
every grave hidden under a network of vines and flowers, 
where birds sang and bees hummed and little children played. 
From this the railway — which, on the principle of that at 
Mount Washington, is provided with a cogged wheel in the 
centre — mounts very steeply. I do not remember so sudden 
an incline in any of our eastern or western mountain roads. 
Cut into the rock at one side, the other looks down upon the 
peaceful valley it is leaving, the emerald waters of the lake, 
and the opposite chain of the Alps piled confusedly against 
the horizon. There is nothing forbidding in the ascent. 
Nearly all the way up the small home fields and farms follow 
the line of the track, cultivated to the extreme edge of the 
precipices upon which they rest, luxuriantly fertile and 
peaceful. It is only the last quarter of the way which 
becomes less thickly covered with grass, and in which occa- 
sionally a bare or rocky spot is seen where some winter 
avalanche has torn away the soil. Beeches and walnuts 
growing slightly smaller, mingle with the hemlocks to within 



THE RIGHT. 1 65 

a few hundred feet of the summit, when all tree life stops 
rather suddenly. But to the end there is still a good sod, 
sown thickly with wild flowers ; and there is none of the 
savage, biting cold which at a height of even six thousand feet 
makes our peaks at home such bitter experiences. As the 
line of road turns, different points come into view, but the 
direction is so largely the same that the summits which first 
dominate the landscape continue to be its most prominent 
features. At each of the six stations at which stops are 
made, very comfortable hotels and pensions, at exceedingly 
cheap rates, invite the tourist for whom the higher altitude 
and higher prices may be too great strain ; and there is not 
one which has not the requisites for healthful rest and de- 
lightful outlook. With our ideas of mountain houses, these 
pretty spots, with flower gardens, terraces, glass- covered 
piazzas, and surrounding forests, seem wonderfully reasonable. 
Ten times each day the train ascends and descends, while 
the loveliest of wood paths, crossed here and there by rustic 
bridges, over tumbling cascades and brawling streams, invites 
one to exercise. 

Every hundred feet of the road lifts one into new delight. 
The air, which was sultry below, becomes fresh and perfumed 
with the resinous spiciness of evergreens; a sudden rift in 
the rock wall at the side gives time for one fearful glance 
down a thousand-foot precipice ; a short tunnel launches one 
upon a suspended bridge over a dark gorge, with a dashing 
torrent roaring below. Girls in the picturesque peasant 
costume of the Bernese Oberland, or the Unterwald, offer 
straw-braided baskets filled with fresh strawberries, or great 
black cherries bound in bunches, like grape clusters, or 
posies of Alpine roses and Edelweiss, or the wild Forget- 
me-not. The hand is stretched out for money as often in 
Switzerland as in any other portion of Continental Europe; 
but there is always something in it to give in return. There 



1 66 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPR. 

is the bouquet of flowers, or the leaf filled with fruit, or the 
web of hand-wrought lace, or the bit of carved wood. It is 
barter, not beggary, that meets you here. And why should 
not a thrifty people strive to glean from the rich harvest of 
strangers, gathered from every field of the distant unknown 
world, whatever they can honestly manage to give value for. 
It must be said in justice to the people that they are not 
importunate. A single negative will silence the boldest; a 
look is sufficient for most. If the amount of overcharge to 
which the summer tourist is obliged to submit in our country, 
and the fees it is customary to give hotel servants, were put 
in the balance and weighed against the few centimes de- 
manded here and there — always with an equivalent offered 
— through Switzerland, we should be surprised to see how 
much more our republican simplicity demands of its pleasure- 
seekers by way of payment. A franc will go as far in dona- 
tions here as a dollar across the water. 

At the final station, a hotel which would do credit to any 
lowland city is perched upon a small plateau not a hundred 
feet from the summit of the Righi. Its rooms are large, well- 
furnished, and comfortable in every way ; its salon and other 
public apartments beautifully fitted ; its dining hall of fine 
dimensions, with a lofty ceiling, and a green and gold decora- 
tion which is highly effective. A broad flight of steps leads 
to it from the small station; there are outside balconies and 
verandahs, a blooming flower-garden is at either side of the 
hall door, and a more than excellent dinner of seven courses 
gives the finishing touch to the requirements of a good 
hotel. With your back turned to the outer world, you could 
not tell that you were not being served at any first-class 
house from Basle to Geneva. You could not be more care- 
fully happed from any evil chance as regards rest or refresh- 
ment. Many a Paris restaurant famed for its table, serves 
colder soup and staler salmon than this inn of the Righi- 



THE RIGHI. 167 

Kulm, 5904 feet above the level of the sea. With your back 
turned, this is what first strikes you ; but now face about. 
Here is what you have come to see, instead of soft couches 
and plentiful tables. Regard it long and well, for probably 
the broad earth does not hold another more wondrous 
picture. 

Look first before you. A tempestuous ocean of mountains, 
the crest of each storm-black wave dashed with snowy foam, 
with white flecks of scattered spray still clinging to their 
massive sides. You, upon the highest billow of all, half dizzy 
with the infinite height and depth which flying cloud and 
pale wraiths of rising vapour make to surge about you. Here 
and there, from some awful, nearer gorge, a mounting, smoke- 
like mist, as if from the hidden mouth of a crater, or a fathom- 
less ravine which seems to plunge into eternal space among 
the sea of grey cloud-drift which fills it. A great calm of 
silence and peace. A sky of pale blue with shining clouds 
piled above the horizon, one of which dips now and again, 
blotting out in a haze of oblivion some portion of the visible 
world. Then again ridge beyond ridge, to the nearest edge 
of heaven, the wondrous sweep of this glorious sea, which 
seems to bridge the space betw^een time and eternity. Walk 
to the other side of the little plateau and look in the opposite 
direction. Still the mountains ; but this time with a vision 
of reposeful fields and quiet farm-houses between you. Low 
down in the green valley, the beautiful cross shaped Sea of 
the Four Cantons lies smiling in intense blue light from this 
distance ; nearer, the emerald lake of Zug stretches to the 
very base of the great precipice upon which you stand ; farther 
ofl" the smaller waters of Egeri and of Alpnacht lie darkly shin- 
ing in the shadow of the heights above them. The gloomy 
and frowning brow of Pilatus, black as if a remnant of its own 
dark tradition for ever clung about" it, rises well in front ; 
behind the swelling billows mount and toss until they break 



1 68 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

against the horizon. What contrast between the laughing, 
wide-stretching plain, and the desolation of these lonely soli- 
tudes which overhang them. Now a thick, grey mist blows 
down from some mighty peak, and part of the solid earth 
disappears in a vaporous whirlwind ; again, in the twinkling 
of an eye, you are enveloped in a bright, soft haze, which 
engulfs all the world except the one rocky platform upori 
which you stand. Soon, first in this direction, then in that, 
a long cloud telescope opens like the slide of a magic lantern 
to show some glimpse of the happy valley, lying, still bathed 
in sunshine, below ; soon, again, as swiftly as it came, the 
clinging veil disappears, blown into some other crevice, and 
you are standing on the sunny height, with one of the 
most beautiful visions in all God's beautiful creation spread 
before you. 

If you are fortunate — and you probably will be — there 
will come to you, as you stand lost in this absorbing mood 
of contemplation, a strain of far away music falling at 
intervals, and at intervals swept away by the mountain 
breezes. It will draw nearer and nearer, its fitful sweet- 
ness merging into continuous harmony, until it sweeps in 
a fine wild melody around the brow of the mountain, and 
lo ! a party of school children out with their teachers for 
a holiday frolic. They have clambered up the five miles 
of mountain-side like so many young goats; their alpen- 
stocks are overtopped with gay bunches of mountain flowers ; 
there are nosegays at their breasts, and trailing wreaths 
above their broad straw-hats; their cheeks are in a fine 
flame of enthusiasm and heat, and the clear pure air of the 
summit bandies their joyous nonsense about with a thin 
sweet iteration that belongs to the rarer atmosphere. They 
rush in a half frenzy of exultation from one point to an- 
other apparently as free from fatigue as if tliey had just 
stepped out of bed ; and in clamorous, voluble French and 



THE EIGHT. 1 69 

German, point out to each other the landmarks of the 
lower country spread like a vision at their feet. They will 
feast like kings at the hotel table by-and-by ; sing one or 
two of their part-songs with the innate purity of intonation 
which seems to be born in this race; and run down the five 
miles between this and the landing again in the late after- 
noon, as fresh as the mountain air, and as jolly as grigs. 
Alack and well a day ! Think of our young American pale- 
faces after a ten-mile scramble ! There would be nothing 
left of them but nerves and temper for the next fortnight. 

The country upon which one thus looks from the top of 
the Righi has an interest greater than any loveliness alone 
could give it, from the fact that it is the cradle of Swiss 
independence. It was in these narrow valleys within their 
rocky heights, that the idea of freedom came 600 years ago, 
which has been held so tenaciously ever since. The Haut 
and Bas Unterwald preserve to this day probably the truest 
and least intricate form of republican government known in 
political history. On a green hillside overhanging the little 
capital of Sarnen, the people assemble on the first Sunday of 
April each year, and after a simple and dignified religious 
exercise, proceed to the direct election of the magistrates 
and rulers who are to guide their interests for the next twelve 
months. Every voter has the right to make his personal 
appeal for or against the candidate in question ; and this right 
is used both with intelligence and moderation. The elder 
men have the honour of bearing the banner of the canton ; 
the retiring officers, who are not admissible for re-election, 
make their annual statements, which are accepted or rejected ; 
the hymn, " Come, Holy Spirit," is sung as an invocation 
of divine assistance, and under the blue, open sky, gathered 
in a semicircle about the White Cross of Switzerland, the 
election is concluded, and the people, with the new Landam- 
mann at their head, proceed to the parish church, where the 



170 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

priest asks the blessing of God upon those to whom temporal 
authority is for the time delegated. To be sure it is but a 
single canton of three or four thousand voters ; yet compared 
even with a village caucus conducted in the ordinary manner, 
what sobriety, what earnestness, what dignity of action. It 
was at Sachseln near by, that the holy and reverend Nicolas de 
Flue lived and died, as much revered by his countrymen for 
his loyalty to the idea of Swiss independence as for his piety. 
When in 148 1 the young republic was in danger of destruc- 
tion from internal dissension, it was his wise and loving hand 
which healed the breach and preserved the unity that has 
never been broken since. Why is it always among the high- 
lands that such heroes and followers appear? What link 
between nature and the supernatural, allies mountains with 
liberty ? 



CHAPTER XXII. 

GENEVA. 

The wanderer will find that the memory of Calvin is not 
more indelibly associated with Geneva than that of Voltaire. 
To leave the city without a visit to the famous chateau of the 
caustic wit and philosopher would be like omitting to look 
across the blue lake for the summit of Mont Blanc, rising 
in white grandeur beyond the dark precipices of the Great 
and Little Saleve. It would be to forego any share in one 
of the crowning glories of the place. The little village of 
FerneXj which was in some measure of his creation, and the 
small property within its limits in which he spent so much 
time during the later years of his life, is really inside the 
French boundary, although its best known approach is from 
Switzerland. One reaches it by a delightful carriage drive 
of an hour and a half, by either of two different routes which 
are equally attractive, but for different reasons. The prettiest 
leaves the city through the Lane of Delight, a long, tree- 
shadowed alley running between high hedges of climbing rose 
and hawthorn bushes, which is an appropriate beginning for 
a pilgrimage of pleasure. A few miles of beautifully kept 
road across country — all these Swiss roads are marvels of con- 
struction and cleanliness — lead to a drive over the brow of 
a low hill rising directly above the water, giving a magnifi- 
cent perspective of the long cloud-crowned range of the Jura 
on one side and the distant majesty of Mont Blanc on the 
other, with a foreground of deep sapphire water which floods 

the whole country side with dazzling luxuriance of colour. 

171 



172 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUI^OPE. 

On the finest portion of the hillsile the beautiful 
domain given by Baroness Eothschild to the city as a 
retreat for convalescents lies in the raidst of broad fields 
of grain ; a group of greystone buildings, at once dignified 
and friendly, where pure air and sunshine can work their 
kindly mission. Adjoining is the Home provided for old 
people, with wide grounds and comfortable buildings, as 
little like the bare and stony institutions we are accustomed 
to connect with municipal charity as it is possible to con- 
ceive. Either property might be that of a private person, 
whose means and tastes were equally large. Later on a 
turn to the left introduces one to the main street of the 
picturesque village. Although so near the borders, it is 
decidedly French in its arrangement ; even the wayside inn, 
with its swinging sign, announcing the " Hotel de Yoltaire,'' 
is more auberge than chalet. There are several manufac- 
tories of pottery, mostly given to the production of house- 
hold utensils, but including one of artistic pretensions. The 
front of the small house in which this industry is carried on, is 
ornamented with numerous plaques, brackets, jugs, and vases, 
with a decoration coarsely resembling the raised faience of 
Limoges ; the flowers, birds, and figures well modelled, but 
the glaze clumsy, and the tints not pure. This workshop is 
popularly supposed to have owed its origin to the great writer, 
and its appearance indicates an age that might make such pre- 
sumption possible. Somewhat farther on, a bronze bust of 
Voltaire surmounts the village fountain ; and almost imme- 
diately afterward the short avenue leading to the chateau is 
reached. 

At the end of the lane, behind a tall iron gateway, the 
small, white, two-story villa, still much the same in general 
outline as during its master's lifetime, rises in the midst of 
a narrow garden, planted with flowers and shrubs in the set 
fashion common to French horticulture. On one side an 



GENEVA. 173 

artificial pond, with steps leading down, still shelters a 
flock of ducks and a few swans, who sail majestically about 
the fountain which ripples over a central pile of rocks, as 
they used in the days when the greatest philosopher of the 
time fed them with bread crumbs. On the other, the small 
square chapel " Erected by Voltaire to God," as the inscrip- 
tion above its doors testifies — whether in mockery or refu- 
tation of the world's aspersion of atheism, who shall say ? — 
shows its modest front under drooping foliage. A low flight 
of steps to the right leads to the raised terrace at the back 
of the house upon which the rooms especially consecrated to 
his memory open. There are but two of these which have been 
preserved in the order and condition in which he left them, 
his parlour and sleeping-room. In the salon, dark in spite of 
the light from a glass door and two small windows, are a couple 
of sombre objects that would dim even a noonday sunshine. 
One is the tomb, albeit in tiles and gilding, which reaches 
from floor to ceiling, with an inscription reading, " My body 
to France, my heart here." The other is an equally lugu- 
brious and monumental stone, also in faience, also the full 
height of the room, and bearing a bronze bust of the great 
man atop. Four or five pictures on the wall, in oils, crayon, 
or bas-relief, reproduce his features at different ages, but all 
as like as peas in that smile half cynical, half arch, the high, 
narrow forehead, and the expression of mingled insight and 
dilettanteism. The furniture is embroidered in an intricate 
design of fuchsias, the work of his nieces ; there are a few 
bits of bric-a-brac and half-a-dozen paintings, gifts of famous 
friends ; a faded carpet and some faded hangings, and that 
is all. The smaller chamber, which opens from it, is of 
greater interest. There is his small, low bed, the canopy 
above still preserving the ragged remnant of former curtains 
which have been hacked away piecemeal by relic hunters. 
There is the picture of Queen Catherine, wrought in tapestry 



174 -^ SUMMER HOLIDAY L.N EUROPE. 

stitcli by ber own hand, over the head board ; another large 
life-size portrait of the same royal personage at the foot ; 
a water colour of Frederick the Great on the wall at the 
side, and an oil painting of the hero in his uniform as 
general of the Eussian army opposite. The philosopher's 
disdain for his great contemporary evidently did not extend 
to his counterfeit presentment. Over the mantel is an 
allegorical representation of the reception of Voltaire and 
Catherine into the company of the Immortals. About are 
some other small relics, with the reclining chair on which the 
frail nervous body so often lingered while the fiercely active 
brain worked upon the problems of life and thought. Out- 
side, a small fountain throws a slender jet of spray into the 
sunshine ; a quaint little summer house covered with Indian 
matting and adorned with faded paintings rises on one side, 
a deep tangle of wild woodland, of such thick growth that 
the tree trunks are black with moss for want of air and 
light, fills the other. Paths cut here and there show the 
direction in which his steps moved in abstract meditation ; 
a great peacock, with argus-eyed tail spread proudly aloft, 
struts through them to-day. A few steps leading to a lower 
terrace, laid out now in a modern flower garden, with pretty 
stone balustrade, leads to the long, green alley formed of the 
closely interlaced boughs of trees, which was his especial 
and favourite promenade. So close have these Gothic arches 
of living green twined themselves together, that one might 
walk dryshod under them in the heaviest rain, although 
the gravelled floor is always moist beneath. The intense 
shadow is relieved by arched openings cut like windows on 
either side at regular intervals, through which the brilliant 
sunshine breaks in white patches. Walking slowly through 
this long, cool, green tunnel, flecked with alternate light and 
shade, one is reminded strongly of the intellect and tem- 
perament of him who created it, there are so many points 



GENEVA. 175 

of similarity between both. Not eschewing wholly either 
nature or God, he preferred to view both in a light which 
made them unreal. Alternately morbid and human, indulg- 
ing in the most abstract philosophy and the brightest play 
of wit by turns, how like he is to this beautiful but strange 
construction, which is wholly artificial and yet wholly 
natural at the same time. From under the arched openings 
an exquisite view of Mont Blanc is obtained, rising like a 
luminous shadow to fill the pale distance beyond the valley 
and the lake. How often he must have paused in the 
midst of his deepest and bitterest reflections, called back by 
the glory of this vision to brighter thought and belief in the 
existence of the Supreme Power which had made earth so 
wonderful. Who knows how much the faith which led the 
brilliant cynic and scoffer still to retain allegiance to a Divine 
Being, was kept alive by the sublimity and graciousness of 
that wrapt presence set constantly before his eyes, and 
leading contemplation toward the upper atmosphere of the 
supernatural ? 

Returning to Geneva, one can choose the other route to 
and from Fernex, which skirts first another hill-slope with 
an especially beautiful view of the Jura, and then descends 
by the border of the lake, where for miles it passes among 
the villas of the great ones of earth, from the Rothschilds 
down to common millionaires. In this way one enters the 
city under the best conditions, coming immediately upon 
the fine quays or boulevards, which are bordered by the 
largest hotels and wealthiest private houses, and are every- 
where surrounded by terraced flower gardens looking out 
on the wonderful blue waters of Leman. The Rhone, 
whose swift current passes through the lake as if through a 
walled passage, flows green and rapid under the bridges of 
the lower end past the Island of Rousseau and the open 
market-places. The streets are wide, sunny, well-paved; 



176 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

bordered by dwellings more like the Parisian hotels, with 
their small balconies outside the long bright windows. 
The public spirit of the old citizens has helped to add 
elegance and charm to the town. The Musee Rath has 
a fine collection of modern pictures and bronzes. The 
Brunswick monument, although it commemorates a most 
unworthy character, is one of the ornaments of the city, 
with its beautiful garden and shaded paths. The Musee 
Foil contains a valuable collection of antiques ; the Musee 
Epigraphique, within the Palace of Justice, has many in- 
teresting remains of the time of the Roman occupation of 
Geneva. The public gardens and promenades are many and 
various — one adorned with marble and bronze busts of cele- 
brated Genevese ; another above the Bastions, where occurred 
the historic Escalade, in which the citizen soldiers defeated 
the Savoyards in 1602. There is the English Garden, 
with its elegant little fountain and kiosk ; the University, 
liberally open to female as well as male students, within 
fine grounds, which are free to the people ; and numberless 
other spots terraced and tree-shaded, with those exquisite 
glimpses of the blue lake and deep background of misty 
mountains which make Geneva beautiful. The open flower 
and fruit markets, the Saturday fairs along the edges of 
the streets, the country carts drawn by ever-braying 
donkeys, the muzzled dogs, the constant sound of music 
from orchestras in the small caf^ gardens or gathered 
on street corners, make the broad ways attractive to the 
stranger, while there are plenty of narrow paved alleys, 
entered under old archways which date from the earliest 
days of Genevese history, to repay the watchful search. 
Women will be glad to know that they can buy jewels at 
probably lower rates than anywhere else in Europe ; men 
will not despise the fact that they can obtain suits as 
handsomely made as those of London, and decidedly 



GENEVA. 177 

cheaper. There is the theatre, which suggests the Grand 
Opera House of Paris on a small scale ; the beautiful 
Casino, for those who would be gay ; the quiet libraries 
and shaded walks for those who would be serious. With- 
out exception the suburbs are delightful, rising above the 
city, with elegant villas and enchanting views of the lake 
and mountains. 

Although Geneva shares so many features in common 
with Lucerne and Zurich in its foreground of dazzling 
water and background of soaring heights, it has a charm 
and glory solely its own in the presence of Mont Blanc 
shining beyond fifty miles of perspective. Perhaps no 
other view in Switzerland gives so wonderfully the relative 
values of its height and majestic outline as this. When 
in fine weather the eye roves through the clear atmosphere 
across the strangely blue sea, past the stony terraces of 
Saleve, through the long sweeping lines of deep azure 
summits piled like battlements against a paler sky, to that 
dazzling culminating point which finally bars the field of 
vision, too far away for spot or stain to dim its serene 
purity, it is enough to set the least impressionable nature 
on fire with enthusiasm. The City is remarkable, too, for a 
certain appearance of belonging to its own people, despite 
the hosts of strangers who throng its rich and beautiful 
thoroughfares. No city in Switzerland gives the same 
impression of birth and breeding among its inhabitants ; 
and this distinction of the householders is repeated in the 
houses themselves. The terraced gardens, bordered by the 
umbrella-like foliage of the plantain trees, adorned with 
statues and fountains, within which so many of finest Gene- 
vese homes withdraw themselves with a fine air of seclusion, 
are not to be found anywhere else : although here they are 
common enough to make one believe the largest portion of 
the people were born to the ways of wealth and leisure. 

M 



178 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

With much the largest proportion of their countrymen, 
even counting those who speak its language, the Genevese 
seem to dislike Germany quite as heartily as they like 
France. The feeling concerning the Teuton is well expressed 
in a witticism which is just now popular here. A Swiss 
peasant coming to town for the first time from his country 
hamlet stops before a picture of a monkey smoking. " Ach 
Gott ! " he says, '^ what is that ? It can't be an animal, 
for it has a pipe. It can't be a man, for there is its tail. 
It must be a German ! " Some undefined doubt as to the 
intention or ambition of its grasping northern neighbour 
seems to dwell constantly in the imagination of at least 
the younger folk of the brave little freehold which is so 
close to it. But there is no fear. A people who have 
known how to preserve liberty for six hundred years will 
not easily lose the recipe. The topographical features of 
the country lend themselves so superbly to the idea of 
defence, that the old story of Thermopylae might be repeated 
in every one of the dozen passes which guard these deep, 
peaceful valleys from intrusion. The country is a series 
of natural fortresses, and each can be made impregnable. 
For the sake of all who love the beauty and majesty of the 
world, it is to be hoped no possible political change will 
ever affect the republic. No other people could so under- 
stand the requirements of travellers, or make so easily 
feasible the delight of looking at this gracious and wonder- 
ful world. Such roads, such inns, such astonishingly low 
prices for the comfort and luxury offered, are known no- 
where else. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

CHAMOUNIX AND MONT BLANC, 

No matter how mucli one has seen of Switzerland, lie can 
never feel that he knows it intimately until he has taken 
some days' journey, at least, by diligence. The diligence 
belongs to the genius of the country as much as its glaciers 
and Alpine valleys. Imagine a great lumbering char-a- 
lanc, with four high- backed seats each for four persons, so 
arranged as to face the horses, and a fifth for guards and 
drivers in front. The vehicle is so tall that one climbs into 
it on a ladder ; the two seats in front are covered by a 
leather hood provided with glass windows, which can be 
closed in case of rain ; the back benches are provided with 
awnings, and raised sufficiently high to allow the occupants 
to overlook the coup4. An immense van hung low between 
the wheels takes the luggage ; and sixteen or eighteen pas- 
sengers make the full complement. Imagine now six fine 
horses, three abreast, each with a high-peaked collar and 
a necklace of bells, and the team is complete. It easily 
travels forty or fifty miles between seven in the morning 
and six at night ; horses being changed at stations of an 
hour's distance, and a stop of forty-five minutes made at 
some convenient station for lunch. To see this lofty 
thunderous chariot, with its horses at a swinging trot, 
rattling through the different country villages, with a jingling 
melody of bells, and a ringing volley of whip-cracking, as 

loud as a roll of musketry, with mothers and little children 

179 



l8o A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUKOPE. 

flying into protecting corners, and nods and smiles being 
interchanged between the brave coachman and his admiring 
friends, is to see a very fine sight indeed. But to be part 
and parcel of all this splendour is even a better experience. 
New through long country roads fragrant with new-mown 
hay and briar roses ; now through short close streets, where 
the homely smell of barnyards mingles with the sweetness 
of small house gardens ; rattling under the hanging signs 
of the wayside inns, on a level with the second story 
windows ; and convoyed everywhere by a rabble of small 
boys and girls with tempting baskets of raspberries and 
cherries — it gives the most delicious sense of rollicking 
motion one can well conceive. The wonderful roads are so 
clean and smooth that it is like driving through a park. 
The plains stretch away in luxuriant fields of grain and 
clover ; every stony hillside is made into a smiling vine- 
yard ; the dark, fir-crowned mountains lead up to the 
eternal bastions of rock which mark the higher ranges ; far 
in the blue distance, pale cloud peaks, with a glint of snow 
on their shadowy brows, make the horizon splendid. Be- 
tween the beauty, the novelty, and the rushing sweep of 
pure cool air, life becomes an enthusiasm instead of a sub- 
mission. 

From whatever direction one chooses to approach it, the 
valley of Chamounix is reached through a constant succession 
of ascents and descents, gradually but almost imperceptibly 
mounting to the 4000 feet level upon which the base of Mont 
Blanc rests. Entering by way of St. Martin and Sallanches, 
the road winds between two parallel lines of mountain 
chains, skirts the edge of a deep ravine on a path half way 
up a steep hillside, and following the eccentric course of a 
rushing stream, enters the lovely village of Chamounix by a 
last swift turn over the pretty stone bridge of Saint Marie. 
There is a passing resemblance to the Yosemite in the 



CHAMOUNIX AND MONT BLANC. l8l 

appearance of the flat valley bounded by high ridges, with 
the river running through, especially if the mists hide the 
outline of the upper peaks from view. A most luxuriant 
vegetation covers every part of the floor of this sheltered 
nook in June. Wild flowers crowd the lower slopes ; roses 
and honeysuckle twine in bowers of bloom around the 
small houses ; the ridges of peas in the kitchen gardens are 
full seven feet high, and crowded with blossoms. Such a 
diversified and beautiful flora is scarcely to be seen on the 
plains of Lower California. Brilliant patches of forget-me- 
nots, Alpine roses, pansies, marguerites, bluets, buttercups, 
wild foxglove, blue gentian, violets, harebells, and primroses, 
decorate this small wilderness of loveliness. On the nearer 
Alps, herds of cows and goats, each with the faintly tinkling 
Alpine cow-bell about its neck, move slowly among the 
steep little pastures, which everywhere creep up amid the 
fir forests. The river looks more like a torrent of crushed 
snow than of water, as if the silent frozen streams of the 
glaciers above had been suddenly precipitated into movement. 
The houses are all picturesque, with wide spreading eaves, 
and roofs of brown shingle held down by great stones. On 
either side, a succession of sharp-pointed ridges run in 
parallel lines at right angles from the road toward the great 
ranges which rise behind. The whole aspect of nature is 
more gentle and soft than bold or awful. 

We entered in a driving rainstorm, which hid all save 
this homely, quiet landscape from our eyes. The clouds 
shut out everything beyond the immediate low line of hills ; 
children were running through the tall wet grass to call the 
cattle home ; women sat knitting in the porches sheltered 
by the overhanging roofs. It was like a hundred other 
peaceful happy nooks we had passed in the day's ride — full 
of the look of content which these guarded nests seem to 
hold within the seclusion of the walls which seem to gather 



152 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

them away from the turmoil of the outer world. Half-an- 
hour afterward a darting ray of sunshine broke through the 
window of the room where we rested, and lo ! the world 
was transfigured ! The valley, which had seemed to be the 
only visible object, was gone, reduced to the merest foot- 
hold of green, from which sprang into the highest heaven 
one radiant presence, glowing with dazzling splendour, of 
which all other mountain soaring had been but the pale 
shadow. To attempt to describe the unearthly majesty of 
Mont Blanc in words to one who has never seen it, is like 
trying to convey to a child's mind some conception of the 
Deity by repeating over the names which have been given 
to His attributes. Speech is but a deaf and dumb alphabet 
with which to attempt the expression of emotions which 
spring from such sublimity. There is something at once 
so awful and beautiful, so soothing and overpowering in 
the presence of this royalty of nature, that one can but lift 
up the eyes and mutely adore as in the presence of the 
Eternal One. Once the magic of that vision has touched 
like chrism the awakened eyes, earth can never be quite the 
same again to the human soul which has received it. There 
shall never come a joy so complete but that this memory 
shall not remain a grace to its setting ; there can never fall 
a sorrow so bitter that this remembrance cannot somewhat 
lessen its pain. Only to have once been allowed to look 
upon it, is a gladness to life for ever after. 

How many times that first night we looked out, to be sure 
that the wonderful glory had not vanished, and slept again, 
content to have seen it under the stars as clearly as in the 
sun of noonday ! How we watched it under the rosy flush of 
morning, while the white curtains of mist had not yet been 
withdrawn from the sleeping peaks below ; what a short two 
days of silent homage we paid its inspiration as it put on 
with each hour some new enchantment, as a monarch clothes 



CHAMOUNIX AND MONT BLANC. 1 83 

himself in the differing splendours of his robes of state? 
Which was fairest ? Dawn, or sunset, or midday glow, or 
faint radiance of the young moon sailing down the western 
sky ? Who can tell, or who would care to decide, once his 
eyes '' have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." 

After the first glimpse of Mont Blanc, all else fades into 
insignificance. The long spurs of forest-crowned slopes 
making ladders from its white height to the valley ; the 
shining rivers of glaciers falling in frozen billows of green 
and white light between them ; the pastoral loveliness of the 
little plain, with its quiet farm-houses and flower-sprinkled 
pastures — what are they but the framing of that priceless 
gem above. They are the setting of the picture, and Nature 
never commits the solecism of making her shrines too ornate 
for the divinity to whom they are dedicated. But every- 
thing is harmonious, and blends with the principal impres- 
sion. Even the sound of the tinkling sweet- voiced bells 
from the lowing herds wandering slowly homeward in the 
twilight, remains always part of one's pleasure in the place, 
and is never heard again without recalling it. And the 
little goat-herds, clambering down after their flocks with 
shrill clear cries, and yodels that fade away among the 
crags ; and the small shepherdesses, with fair hair tightly 
braided, knitting their long stockings as they follow the 
flocks through the grass ; and up and down the village 
street, the guides with cock's feathers in tall Tyrolese 
hats. 

For ten or twelve miles after leaving the valley one still 
looks backward at the mountain. First from one angle, then 
from another; now a glimpse only, again a few moments 
of full view, it moves to left and to right, before and behind 
one, as the loveliest road in the world twists and turns 
through gorges and hillsides. The awful mouth of the Tete 
Noire swallows one awhile, then the road zigzags upon itself 



184 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

four different times, until it comes out a thousand feet above 
the valley, with the cataracts and whirlpools of the boiling 
stream below as motionless as the dusty white road beside 
it. But in the steepest, the wildest, the most remote spot, 
wherever there is an inch of soil, there is also the inch of 
cultivation ; signs of human presence and loving labour 
Boften the sternest outlook. At intervals the exquisite 
valleys enclose thrifty, clean villages, and wide fertile fields ; 
at intervals, again, a rare bit of desolation glows like a mosaic 
of crimson and amber from the wild rhododendron growing 
among the yellow rocks. A southern slope is covered with 
the elegant foliage of the chestnuts, those aristocrats of 
trees ; a forest of larches drapes the path like curtains 
of lace. 

Down below, far away, one sees the village where the 
night is to be passed — one long street bordered with farm- 
houses set in the midst of the green plain, with a single 
snowy cascade falling like a long white plume over the dark 
brow of the mountains that hem it in. The wise man will 
pass through Martigny, even if the grey round tower on 
the height charm never so wisely, and go on to where 
fair Vernayaz rests at the entrance to the Gorge of Trient. 
There is nothing among the Colorado canons more beau- 
tiful for its size than this 1800 feet cleft in the rocky walls 
that rise from 600 to 1 000 feet in sheer perpendicular 
lines from the roaring torrent that tears its way through 
like an angry raging creature, breaking from bondage to 
light and freedom beyond. The cliffs approach to within 
six feet of each other in the narrowest place, and sepa- 
rate to perhaps eighteen in the widest. One wall is the 
beginning of the range of Mont Blanc ; the other that of 
the Dent du Midi. It is the melted ice of the glacier which 
bursts between these at the farther end, in one superb bound 
of white wrath so fierce and strong that the stream in which 



CHAMOUNIX AND MONT BLANC. 1 85 

it merges is forty feet deep as it hurls itself onward. A 
narrow w^ooden gallery is hung from the side of the wall 
along its whole extent, dimly lighted by the patch of blue 
sky that shines far above. Pale sprays of flowers bleached 
by the shadows in which they have grown, and clumps of 
maidenhair fern, hide in the crevices — the only break in 
the aspect of defiant sternness which marks the scene. It 
is hard to understand why so few people, comparatively, 
have seen a bit which is really one of the wildest expres- 
sions of savage nature in this portion of Switzerland, and 
which makes up in intensity what it lacks in extent. Out- 
side, over the pretty plain of Yernayaz, one black mountain 
slope is perforated from top to bottom with holes like those 
of cliff swallows, where the slate quarries open from which 
a large part of the country is supplied. Happily it is the 
only development of resources we saw on the entire journey. 
One trembles to think what might happen if this world of 
wonderment and loveliness should suddenly prove to be a 
mass of mineral wealth. Would the Swiss soul, which is 
equal in exaltation of prudence to that of the canny Scot, 
prove capable of resisting the temptation ; or would the 
soaring glory of the Matterhorn, and the majesty of the 
White Mountain, vanish in piles of rubbish and the dirty 
refuse of mining shafts ? It is doubtful whether the diamond- 
fields of South Africa have been any greater source of wealth 
to those who discovered them, than the beauty of Switzerland 
to its peasantry. But it is a wise dispensation of Providence 
for the peace of mind of the aesthetic world, that the chance 
of amassing sudden and colossal fortunes in this way has not 
been offered the inhabitants. They might prove unable to 
resist the temptation. 

We brought with us, by way of reminiscence, one of the 
small cow-bells which mark one of the pleasantest memories 
of Chamounix. I shall never hear it again without seeing, 



1 86 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

like some fair, far off vision, the lowing herds winding slowly 
through the deep pastures of the happy valley ; the quaint 
little maids, flaxen-haired and demure, walking gravely 
behind, as they deftly ply their shining knitting-needles ; 
the sweet peas climbing to the rude gables of the peaceful 
small houses ; the rushing of the green torrent through the 
gloaming ; and the awful mysterious beauty of that won- 
derful mountain lifted high above in the upper air, with 
tlie evening alpen glow crowning its white brow, as if the 
luminous shadow of the throne of God had for a moment 
rested upon it. 



LONDON. 



CHAPTER XXIY. 
LONDON: AMONG THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 

He who has eaten of the fruit of the tree of knowledge by 
becoming used to the routine of travel first in France and 
Switzerland, will feel that he has been driven out of paradise 
for many a long day after he has been forced to enter upon 
other scenes. The wonderful caretaking shown in road 
and street, the perfection of hotels, the comfort of the Pen- 
sion, the unvarying courtesy of tradespeople and domestics, 
the facilities for journeying in every direction, and the ex- 
ceeding cheapness, make a climax of perfections not easily 
forgotten. When the exquisite beauty and novelty of scene 
are added, and the sense of romance and pleasure which 
foreign costumes and a foreign tongue add to the ordinary 
experience of life, there is a zest given to enjoyment which 
is scarcely possible under other circumstances. No matter 
how delightful an English-speaking country may be, or 
with what homely felicity of remembered pleasures she woos 
memory, some evanescent perfume of imagination has escaped 
on the passage from Italian skies and Provence roses, that 
never comes again until they shine once more for us. That 
is to say, for certain temperaments. For others, like poor 
Blanche of Devon, there is neither rest nor thanksgiving, 
except upon the native soil and amid the soothing influence 
of the home atmosphere. But I think for most people the 
" eternal commonplace " of life, the wear and tear which 

belong to the narrow and uniform round of duties that go 

189 



I go A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUEOPE. 

to make up everyday existence, vanislies more completely 
under the stranorer surroundinsfs. 

Whether one tries hotels or lodgings, a little cloud seems 
to have settled over the world on this side of the Channel, 
as compared with that on the other. One misses the swift 
attendance, the bright smile, the cleanliness which seemed 
next to godliness, the flutter of the white lace curtains, the 
ever-present grace of flowers — one misses them as one would 
dear faces of familiar friends. It is a wearisome work to 
come back to the dirty corners and grimy heaviness of 
stuffed chairs and gloomy draperies ; to the indifferent, 
stolid look which accompanies the indifferent service; to 
the bleeding, heavy rounds of beef, and fat legs of mutton. 
Something of the old care and moil returns ; something of 
glamour and fascination departs. The shadow of the end 
of the holiday is approaching. 

To classify London under any general heading of impres- 
sions is not only hard — it is impossible. Its size, by which 
one has expected to be overwhelmed, does not after all press 
so heavily upon the sense after Vienna and Paris. Two 
millions added to two millions scarcely impress one as being 
much greater. Nor is the roar, except when out in the 
midst of it, so very aggressive. But the enormous discrep- 
ancies, the impression of infinite luxury and infinite poverty, 
the evidences of wealth and of squalor which follow so 
closely on each other's footsteps, daze one. A tremor of awe 
seizes the soul and presses the imagination, as if one stood 
on the verge of fearful unknown possibilities. Here is a 
Museum rich with the rarest treasures of thought and know- 
ledge, endowed with such infinity of resource and such lavish 
prodigality that it becomes one of the wonders and delights 
of the earth ; there from its very gates stretches a street as en- 
cumbered with dirt, and grime, and strange woeful specimens 
of human wretchedness, in the labyrinth of foul lanes and 



AMONG THE LIGHTS AKD SHADOWS. I9I 

vicious courts which lead into it, as would challenge Hogarth's 
pencil to caricature. There can be no extravagance of ex- 
pression in describing London wretchedness, as there can 
be none in designating its splendour. One might walk for 
days among palaces wreathed in flowers, shining in plate 
glass and pillared portico, overlooking broad parks set with 
noble trees among which stately herds of deer wander ; and 
almost anywhere upon the way, a turn to the right hand or 
to the left will bring one face to face with the same terrible 
unsolved problem of suffering. Then, again, from the midst 
of the most sudden and depressing neighbourhoods, with 
every evidence of want and crime, and that expression of 
sullen, dogged resentment which makes London poverty 
unlike any other on the face of the globe, a dozen steps 
under some obscure archway, an instant's swerving from the 
loud, filthy, brutal street, will lead you into blessed spots 
full of quiet and sunshine, brightened by memories of death- 
less names, or by the more precious evidences of living zeal 
and devotion. The richest pages of history offer their illus- 
trations in the most dreadful neighbourhoods ; the proudest 
arrogance of wealth jostles rags and tatters. It is this im- 
pression more than any other that the first weeks, and above 
all, the first days, leave uppermost. 

But after this first inevitable confusion, this chaos of 
blended emotions, a certain balance begins to establish itself. 
With the help of the thousand and one smaller guide-books, 
devised like milestones to help the stranger toward the 
landmarks of his special interest, the tangled ways begin 
to clear. For the historian the wonderful background of 
centuries unrolls itself like the figures on the walls of a 
tapestried chamber, dim but tangible, to add the delightful 
test of actuality to the vagueness of research. From the 
old waterways of the Thames to the gloomy walls of the 
Tower, from court and palace and dim vaulted church aisles, 



192 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

the personages of bis vision troop in serried ranks. West- 
minster Abbey gathers within its beautiful walls the glorified 
shadows of three hundred years ; London Bridge and St. 
Paul's, the Temple and Whitehall, the Strand and Smith field 
are before him yet, to repay every foot of his progress with 
priceless associations. For the literary man it is even more 
rich and complex. All that is dearest and finest to the 
English-speaking world, whether it be of wit or philosophy, 
poetry or art, has here its stronghold. To the burrower 
among books it is like coming home to some inheritance 
dear to heart and intellect just to pass over the sidewalks 
and read the names upon the street signs. A strange sense 
of pre-existence takes hold of one, as if in some earliest 
long-lapsed state all these things had been parts of previous 
being. It is not half as strange to us as New York or San 
Francisco. At every step one comes upon the footprints of 
some beloved ancestor, and the air is full of echoes of voices 
familiar and sweet to the ears. Not to the material sense 
of hearing in the present. That is tortured beyond expres- 
sion. Insular English is not so wholly absurd as that which 
goes abroad for summer airing, but faith ! 'tis bad enough. 
With many a delicious and sweet-voiced exception, for 
which heaven be devoutly praised, the Queen's English is 
most grievously battered and browbeaten by her most loyal 
subjects. There is little reason for any rule of pronuncia- 
tion in Anglo-Saxon; but even that little is thrown to the 
winds by an eccentricity of speech which passeth all under- 
standing. The vowel which is broadened out of shape in 
one sentence is minced into something frailer than air in 
another ; the poor consonants are huddled together and sub- 
mitted to hydraulic pressure this instant, and drawn out in 
extenuated single file the next ; the voice tilts down in the 
middle of a sentence and up at the end — it is a miracle of 
unbridled absurdity. And this is leaving out the accidents 



AMONG THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 1 93 

of dialect and patois which should be supposed to belong ex- 
clusively to the common people. A Judge upon the Bench 
will talk of his " consti-chew-eucj" and a learned counsel 
quote the " Coke Hurled " without fear of suit for libel from 
the Cork Herald he has so maligned; and people whose 
attainments, both socially and intellectually, would be a 
pride and honour to any society, mouth their sentences in 
a way which is delicious exercise for the imagination, but 
trying to common sense. Since this latter is rather a rare 
factor in observation, however, it is less to be pitied. 

To the mind trained by reading and reflection it is im- 
possible to move in London without intense gratification. 
It is like a triumphal progress through royal scenes with 
more than royal companions. A thousand times one is 
led to feel — 

" Not by appointment do we meet delight and joy — 
They heed not our expectancy ; 
But round some corner in the street of life 
They clasp us, with a smile." 

Amid the strangest belongings, these happy ghosts wait 
to greet us, until the power of human interest flags under 
the strain. To-day it is with kings and queens we walk ; 
to-morrow with saints and martyrs ; this moment we are 
with Johnson and Goldsmith in the Mitre Tavern and Wine 
Office Court, the next with Shakespeare in the Hall of the 
Temple, or Carlyle and Sir Thomas More by the river bank at 
Chelsea. Here, there, everywhere, the haunts he loves are 
about one ; the treasures he delights in are open to him. 
He can revel in old bookstalls and print shops ; he can feast 
his eyes on relics and manuscripts ; he can make tangible 
his aspirations of years. And all the glory, the grandeur, 
the delight is familiar and dear, as belonging to the forbears 
of his own race and the pages of his own family history. 

N 



194 A summi!:r holiday in elrope. 

It is this wliicli gives to it the last and crowning element 
of personal interest. 

But to one who adds to this the kindly human feeling 
which binds man to his fellows, it is not so unmixed a plea- 
sure. The pressure of human misery is too close, too awful. 
The more imaginative temperament and the stronger religious 
faith which cause poverty to be worn with so easy a grace, 
and lead its followers to accept so happily whatever is offered 
in its alleviation in other countries, is wanting here. There 
is an aspect of sullen antagonism, a hapless mixture of in- 
difference and resentment in the faces about Seven Dials and 
Billingsgate, which is wholly unlike anything one meets else- 
where in Europe. There is also an abjectness of dirt in the 
sordid, filthy rags of the very poor : in the bleared faces 
and grimy hands ; in the filthy lanes and passages among 
which they dwell, which is entirely new to the observation. 
The houses look far more comfortable outwardly than many 
of the quarters of Dublin, New York, and Paris ; there are 
countless forms of attempted relief in green openings into 
parks and gardens, in every form of charity known to re- 
fined human sympathy, in missions and schools and friendly 
societies ; but nothing lightens the dull, awful weight of the 
impression which the poor of London leave upon the heart. 
It is a moral oppression which colours all beauty, all splendour, 
as a lowering storm dims with sinister shadow the brightest 
summer landscape. The cloud will pass, leaving refresh- 
ment of purer air behind it ; but, alas ! what thunderbolt of 
eternal justice, what lightning flash of purifying grace, will 
ever clear this incubus, and what desolation will it leave in 
its track ! I saw more the aspect of misery, the hideousness 
of sordid wretchedness, the brutality of passion, the partial 
forgetfulness of intoxication, in three days of London than 
I had in three months before ; and the weeks after only 
deadened without obliterating the impression. In the play 



AMONG THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. IQ^ 

of the poor, pitiful little children, in the treatment of infants 
by fathers and mothers, there was a harshness and coarseness 
that never had been forced upon attention in other lands. 
And this at a time when enjoyment of its rich, varied, tre- 
mendous attractions for the higher nature was so overpower- 
ing that it should have usurped every other consideration. 
I think it would take a long time so to adjust the claims of 
sympathy and intellect, of soul and sense, as to make an 
observer's life in London come under normal conditions. To 
go, for instance, from the distinctly noble and Christlike 
work of Toynbee Hall, with the opening for spiritual and 
material light which has been created about it, into the 
lanes and halls of the Whitechapel district, which immedi- 
ately surround it, foul with every moral and physical de- 
gradation from sewer smells to murder, is to be lifted too 
high and sunk too low on the billows of emotion to be able 
to keep a healthy poise of thought or feeling. Yet in some 
form or other it is to this strain one is every day subjected. 
Even the manner in which, when a fee or au alms was 
in question, it had the appearance of a demand rather than 
a request, and the scowl or the curse if it were not forth- 
coming was in harsh contrast to the half-jesting, half- 
earnest clamour of the Irish beggar, or the polite bit of 
wheedling, under the guise of four hire, to which one is 
subjected in France and Switzerland. The sentiment in the 
heart of all these poor wretches may be the same, and the 
sullen resentment at fortune in the Englishman's face may 
hide below the surface in his Celtic or Gallic neighbour, 
but it gives a bitterness to the stranger's estimate of the 
people which is hard to efface ; and so long as poverty 
must remain in the world, one cannot help wishing with 
all one's heart that the harsh line which separates it from 
riches should not be made more darkly prominent than it 
really is. Many different things in the political economy 



196 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

of kingdoms and empires puzzle the republican simplicity 
that is brought face to face with them for the first time ; 
but the expression of antagonism to existing conditions, 
whether of men or things, that is written upon the face of 
the poor of London is hard to comprehend. There is only 
one thing harder, and that is the look of sullen and hope- 
less misery which sometimes takes its place, and blots out 
all appearance of human emotion from the unfortunate 
creatures who seem to retire behind it as behind a mask or 
a fortress. 



UHAFIEU XXV. 

LONDON: IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE GREAT. 

Nothing in London strikes the American quite so strangely 
as the absence of strangeness. One is amazed each instant 
at the familiar aspect of names and places, and the persis- 
tency with which they meet one. Here the " Howell and 
James" young men of "Patience" look through their plate- 
glass windows ; there Day and Martin shine with black 
brilliancy ; now a scent of the toilet-table lingers about the 
birthplace of Pears' soap ; then a delicious, all-pervading 
atmosphere of raspberry jam and mixed pickles emphasises 
the neighbourhood of Crosse and Blackwell. Perfumery and 
flannels, ale and Albert biscuit, mackintoshes and umbrellas 
■ — this is the book of Genesis for all. It is like reaching the 
cradle of the race of inanimate things. 

As for the feast of reason and flow of soul, it is every- 
where. Here is the church in which Hazlitt was married ; 
there the house where Lamb lived. Up this dark alley Gold- 
smith and Johnson walked arm-in-arm from Fleet Street, 
with snuffy, listening Boswell close behind. Pass out of 
Bolt Court into Gough Square, and you can climb up the 
stairs, holding by the very banisters which often supported 
the gouty hand of the short-winded, short-tempered, big- 
hearted old philosopher. There is the room in which the 
great dictionary was compiled; and the quaint, dingy fire- 
place, by which the lonely man used to sit after the death of 

his wife, with his tea brewing on the hob, and the small circle 

197 



IqS a summer holiday in EUROPE. 

of stout friends around him. Down that little paved lane is 
the famous Inn of the Cheshire Cheese wherein he was used 
to smoke his pipe and drain his tankard of bitter ale with 
Reynolds and Burke. At the upper end of the long table 
the mark of his greasy peruke is still to be seen upon the 
dark wainscoting, and the arm of the old bench is worn with 
pressure of the heavy leaning elbow as he alternately brooded 
and discoursed. The floor is fragrant yet with sawdust as it 
used to be in his day ; light struggles through the same small 
paned windows ; the same famous beefsteak and kidney-pie 
graces the five o'clock dinner; the two guinea punch-bowl 
holds the historic brew which served as ambrosia for these 
gods of old. One can fancy it might be the same waiter, with 
his mutton-chop whiskers,' who whispers in a husky voice 
legend after legend of those halcyon days for your delectation, 
who brings you the best grill in London just popped from the 
gridiron to your plate, with a nibble of cheese and a pewter 
noggin of 'alf an' 'alf, and who drops his ^'s with an unfor- 
getting imperturbability that commands your respectful ad- 
miration. It does one's very soul good to have reached a 
station on the journey of life where the inconveniences and 
eccentricities of the olden times have held their own against 
the pressure of modern improvements ; where on high festival 
nights, tallow-candles are still used instead of gas ; and the 
wooden benches are as hard and uncouth as they were a 
hundred years ago. There is need of but little imagination 
to fill the musty, awkward little bar, and the low room beyond, 
with shades of jolly good fellows from Herrick and Rare Ben 
down to Wilson and Southey, De Quincey and Coleridge. 
The spot is made for them. 

Then there is the Temple — not the gorgeous new Law 
Courts that fill the opposite side of the Strand, where Temple 
Bar used to stretch its ancient arch above the moil of modern 
traffic ; but that beautiful inner labyrinth of courts, alleys, and 



IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE GREAT. 1 99 

quadrangles which stretches around and beyond the wonder- 
ful Church of the Knights. The Temple, with its fair bright 
gardens reaching down to the river embankment ; the well- 
beloved Goldsmith's grave resting under the ivied shadow of 
the chapel walls ; the great dining hall in which Shakespeare 
read his Twelfth Night to Elizabeth, and the Virgin Queen 
danced a measure with Sidney and Raleigh ! It is such 
spots as these which make London precious to memory, full 
of such wealth of association, such blending of history and 
romance, as make one lead a dual life while lingering among 
them. the quiet and deep peace of those Temple Gardens, 
when turning in from the roar of the Strand, a dozen steps 
lead one into the restfulness of seclusion and green trees, 
and nodding flowers and ripple of bird song ! It is impos- 
sible to conceive greater contrast. There the unlovely rush 
and hurry of material existence, the fret and anxiety of toil, 
the bewildering roar and bustle of mighty interests, which 
surge and sweep as if individual affairs were but straws to 
be tossed away on the inexorable current. And here the 
calm of contemplation, the open blue eye of the sky, the 
tender face of nature pressed so close to ours that we can 
read her soul. It is like a plunge from the garish chaos 
of Time to the clear penumbra of Eternity, to wander through 
the aisles of the dim old church, or among the lofty shadows 
of the hall, with Vandyke's King Charles riding in royal 
state out of the gloom, or beside those unknown graves whose 
occupants have so long vanished from human sight, that they 
do not even arouse human sorrow. 

One can float down the river from foot of these same 
gardens, taking boat, as those men of old might have taken 
theirs to other scenes of loving remembrance ; gliding past 
the beautiful towers and gracious outlines of the Abbey and 
the Parliament Houses to Chelsea. There, beyond the little 
square which now holds his bronze effigy, is the street which 



200 A SUxMMI.R HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

bears Carlyle's house, with his gloomy mask set as a trade- 
mark into the outer wall. How he would have despised such 
a claim upon the attention of passers-by. It is not nearly 
so sad a spot as the imagination of its owners made it. The 
low fence which bounds the opposite side of the street allows 
a more than usual amount of sunshine to fall upon the 
narrow, three-storied building, gay now with ledges of 
flowers in every window, and showing a cool glint of 
greenery through the passage way from the open hall door 
to the back garden. It looked like a spot that could have 
been made not only a happy but a bright home for natures 
not so overborne by the shadows of genius. A little less 
dyspepsia or a little more content would have made a different 
estimate of their surroundings in the minds of Jenny Welsh 
Carlyle and that great unhappy man who was her husband. 
It needs but a look at the powerful, keen- tortured face of 
the statue in the square above, with the loose coat twisted like 
an invalid's robe around the frail, worn figure, and the uncon- 
scious expression of dissent and antagonism which breathes 
from every line of the pose, to understand that it would have 
been difficult for such a spirit to be in touch with its sur- 
roundings even if they had been those of palaces. 

Only a little way around the corner are the former abodes 
of others whom our reverence delights to honour. Dante 
Gabriel Rosetti once lived there, and George Eliot ; while 
farther down the same Cheyne Walk was the sweetest and 
kindliest nature England ever gave to the world, Sir Thomas 
More. What a different earth this would be if nature more 
often moulded her heroes on the lines of this great, generous, 
loving figure, whose serene, smiling philosophy, and noble 
faith, no perversity of chance or misfortune could tarnish ! 
And what blissful barter for the snarling Scottish giant, 
could he have exchanged a portion of his golden intellect — 
precious indeed, but harsh and cruel — for the warm radiant 



IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE GREAT. 201 

heart, pulsing with love for man and faith in God, which 
beat within the bosom of his neighbour ! 

But in this sort of reminiscence London is so rich that to 
follow it would fill the days for months without turning to 
right or left for intercourse with the present. The pavement 
of the city streets as well as the crypts of the churches are 
rich with a mosaic of threads which run through the entire 
warp and woof of history. In the darkest and dullest corners 
of the city one stumbles upon traces of characters and events 
so glorious that they brighten the dullest clouds of material 
environment. There is scarce a figure dear to the heart of 
the student, the patriot, the philanthropist, or the reformer, 
which does not cast its luminous shadow on these grimy 
walls and make the dull skies radiant. It is in this way, 
that with little or none of the material charm which captures 
sense and imagination in the continental cities, it fascinates 
by mere force of association. Its dirt repels, its poverty 
shocks ; its air of brutal wealth as well as of brutal misery 
makes the heart sick ; the smoke-dark heaven and soot- 
grimed houses cloud the sensitive appreciation which have 
been fed upon beauty and brightness. But in spite of all, 
it takes hold of something deeper and stronger that belongs 
to the soul of the Anglo-Saxon race. The Tower, West- 
minster, St. Paul's, the Museum, Kensington, Sydenham, the 
parks, the monuments, the galleries, the palaces, are such 
a rare and strong world of their own. Most of it has been 
so familiar to us across the water by picture and description 
from childhood that it is like looking upon the face of an 
old friend to enter upon it for the first time. 

But after all, there is more gratification as well as greater 
novelty about the hidden by-paths which are yet fragrant 
with the memories of nearer and dearer brethren — bright 
souls whose glory is more intimately our own than even 
kings or heroes. In these the city is richer than words can 



202 A SUMMER HOLIDAY IN EUROPE. 

tell. In the older portions, there is no spot of earth which 
is not hallowed by their footsteps, and the interest in follow- 
ing them is absorbing. There are other impressions, too, 
which should not be missed. The service at the Found- 
ling Hospital is one, where the children's voices are nearer 
the sweetness of the angelic chorus than will ever fall on 
human ears this side of heaven; and where the children's 
faces are more full of the innocent careless grace of child- 
hood than I ever remember to have seen among those trained 
by that cold stepmother. Charity. There are the Blue Coat 
Boys of Christ's Hospital ; and the Charterhouse, which was 
the Alma Mater of so many brilliant sons; and the People's 
Palace, which sprang like an enchantment from the tip of 
a magician's pen. Then there is the Universities Settlement 
of East London, which is sketched in the story of Robert 
Elsmere. This admirable institution of Toynbee Hall is in 
itself alone enough to counteract and hallow a large share of 
the grievous impressions which the ordinary aspect of London 
makes upon the stranger. The affiliation of culture with 
ignorance, and of trained moral sense with the obtuseness of 
unawakened conscience, is capable of producing great results ; 
and the principle of seizing hold of and occupying the mind 
before the attention has been caught by debasing pleasures 
and unworthy aims is fundamental. Toynbee Hall, built in 
the midst of the most degraded and wicked district of White- 
chapel, is not for purposes of reclaiming, but of prevention. 
The young university men who take up their abode and go 
on with their regular work within its walls mix freely with 
the people, become their friends and counsellors, introduce 
them to healthy recreations, wholesome reading, cleanliness 
of body, purity of mind, clearness of conscience. It is not 
by any means an intellectual training simply which they 
suggest and offer, but a wider and fuller awakening of all 
the traits which go to make up nobler manhood. Any one 



IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE GREAT. 203 

who visits the small pretty enclosure, like a minature Oxford 
quadrangle in which a love of beauty is as carefully cultivated 
as a love of higher things, and who sees the interested 
awakened faces of those who have been helped to a better 
understanding of the claims of existence, can scarce fail to 
be touched by the evidences of earnestness and sincerity all 
about him. It is one of the fairest sights in London, and 
its memory will live when the sinister effect of its pomp and 
degradation, riches and misery, shall have faded for ever. 



THE END. 



OOKS OF TRAVEL 



BRIGHT pooKS OF TR^ 
REEZY - - - - BY SIX BRICirrWO r ^EN 

MEXICO — PICTURESQUE, POLITICAL, PROGRESSIVE 

By Mary E. Blake and Margaret F. Sullivan. Cloth, $1.25. 
"This is a very charming- volume. The writers went through the 

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A WINTER IN CENTRAL AMERICA AND MEXICO 

By Helen J Sanborn. Cloth, $1.50. 
*' A bright, attractive narrative by a wide-awake Boston girl." 

A SUMMER IN THE AZORES, with a Glimpse of Madeira 

By Miss C. Alice Baker. Little Classic style. Cloth, gilt edges, $1.25. 
" Miss Baker gives us a breezy, entertaining description of these picturesque 

islands. She is an observing traveller, and makes a graphic picture of tl>e 

-juaint people and customs." — Chicago Advance. 

LIFE AT PUGET SOUND 

A'ilh sketches of travel in Washington Territory, British Columbia, Oregon, 
and California. By Caroline C. Leighton. i6mo, cloth, $1.30. 
" Your chapters on Puget Sound have charmed me. Full of life, deeply 

mteresting, and with just that class of facts, and sugf:;e>tions of truth, that 

cannot fail to help the Indian and the Chinese." — Wendell Phillips. 

ITUROPEAN BREEZES 

tv/ Margery Deane. Cloth, gilt top, $1.50. Being chapters of travel 
through Germany, Austria, Hungary, and Switzerland, covering places not 
usually visited by Americans in making " the Grand Tour of the Conti- 
nent," by the accomplished writer of " Newport Breezes." 
" A very bright, fresh and amusing account, which telis us about a host of 

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travel." — Woman s Jourrial. 

BEATEN PATHS ; or, A Woman's Vacation in Europe 

By Ella W. Thompson. i6mo, cloth. $1.50. 
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AN AMERICAN GIRL ABROAD 

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" A sparkling account of a European trip by a wide-awake, intelligent, arid 

irrepressible American girl. Pictured with a freshness and vivachy that is 

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CURTIS GUILD'S TRAVELS 
BRITONS AND MUSCOVITES: or, Traits of Two Empires 

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OVER THE OCEAN; or, Sights and Scenes in Foreign Lands 

By Curtis Guild, editor of " The Boston Commercial Bulletin ' Crown 8vo. 

Cloth, $2.50. 

" The utmost that any European tourist can hope to do is to tell the old 
story in a somewhat fresh way, and Mr. Guild has succeeded in every part of 
his book in doing y\\\'s,." — Philadelphia Bulletin. 
ABROAD AGAIN ; or, Fresh Forays in Fo/eign Fields 
Uniform with " Over the Ocean." By the same author Crown 8vo. 

Cloth $2.50. 

" He has given us a life-picture. Europe is done in a style that must serve 
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book.'' — Neiv-York Tribune. 
TRAVELS AND OBSERVATIONS IN THE ORIENT, with = 

Hasty Flight in the Countries of Europe 
By Walter Harkiman (ex-Governor of New Hampshire). $1.50. 

" The author, m his graphic description of these sacred localities, refers 
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A Story of Actual Sea-Life. By Robert B. Dixon, M.D. $1.25. 

Travels in Mexico, with vivid descriptions of manners and customs, form a 
large part of this striking narrative of a fourteen-months' voyage. 
VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE 
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Gulf of Mexico. By Nathaniel H. BiSHOP. With numerous illustra- 
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" Mr. Bishop did a very bold thing, and has described it with a happy 
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FOUR MONTHS IN A SNEAK-BOX 
A Boat Voyage of Twenty-six Hundred Miles down the Ohio and Mississippj 

Rivers, and along the Gulf of Mexico. By Nathaniel H. Bishop. With 

numerous rr.aps and illustrations. $1.50. 

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A THOUSAND MILES' WALK ACROSS SOUTH AMERICA, 

Over the P mpas and the Andes 
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" Mr. Bishop made this journey when a boy of sixteen, has never forgattea 
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CAMPS IN THE CARIBBEES 
Being the Adventures of a Naturalist Bird-hunting in the West-India Islands. 

I>y Fred A. OuER. New edition. With maps and illustrations. $1.50. 

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ENGLAND FROM A BACK WINDOW; With Views of 

Scotland and Ireland 
By J. M. Bailey, the " ' Danbury News' Man." i2mo. $1.00. 

" The peculiar humor of this writer is well known. The Bri:\sh Isles have 
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DRIFTING ROUND THE WORLD; A Boy's Adventures by 

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"Out of the beaten track" in its course of travel, record of adventures, 
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aad adventurous; and the book is in every way interesting and attractive. 

EDWARD GREEY'S JAPANESE SERIES 
YOUNG AMERICANS IN JAPAN ; or, The Adventures of the 
Jewett Family and their Friend Oto Nambo 

With 170 full-page and letter-press illustrations. Royal Svo, 7 x 95 inches. 

Handsomely illuminated cover. $1.75- Cloth, black and gold, $2.50. 

This story, though essentially a work of fiction, is filled with interesting and 
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THE WONDERFUL CITY OF TOKIO ; or, The Further Ad- 
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With 169 illustrations. Royal 8vo, 7x95 inches. With cover in gold and 

colors, designed by the author. $1.75. Cloth, black and gold, $2.50. 

" A book full of delightful information. The author has the happy gift of 

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mostly drawn by a Japanese artist, and are very unique." — Chicago Herald. 

THE BEAR WORSHIPPERS OF YEZO AND THE ISLAND 
OF KARAFUTO ; being the further Adventures of the 
Jewett Family and their Friend Oto Nambo 

180 illustrations. Boards, $1.75. Cloth, $2.50. 

Graphic pen and pencil pictures of the remarkable bearded people who livft 
ill the north of Japan. The illustrations are by native Japanese artists, and 
give queer pictures of a queer people, who have been seldom visited. 

HARRY W. FRENCHES BOOKS 
OUR BOYS IN INDIA 

The wanderings of two young Americans in Hindustan, with their exciting 

adventures on the sacred rivers and wild mountains. With 145 illustrations. 

Royal Svo, 7x9! inches. Bound in emblematic covers of Oriental design, 

$1.75. _ Cloth, black and gold, $2.50. 

While it has all the exiting interest of a romance, it is remarkably vivid im 
Its pictures of manners and customs in the land of the Hindu. The illustra- 
tions are many and excellent. 

OUR BOYS IN CHINA 

The adventures of two young Americans, wrecked In the China Sea on their 
return from India, with their strange wanderings through the Chinese 
Empire. 188 illustrations. Boards, ornamental covers in colors and gold, 
$1.75. _ Cloth, $2.50. 
This gives the further adventures of" Our Boys" of India fame in the land 

of Teas and Queues. 

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[ RENE E J EROME'S .... 
1 ...'.. . ^RT BOOKS 

IN A FAIR COUNTRY. With 55 full-page illustrations; en- 
graved by Andrew. Nearly 100 pages of text, by Thomas Wentworth 
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tree calf, $15.00; English seal style, $10.00. 

Miss Jerome has caught the very glamour of the woodland and the lea 
witl) her pencil, transferring it to paper with the delicacy of an exquisite 
photograph, while Colonel Higginson's delightful style brings out the 
beauty of nis topics most satisfactorily. As a specimen of the book- 
maker's art, the volume leaves nothmg to be asked. 

A BUNCH OF VIOLETS. Original illustrations, engraved on 
wood and printed under the direction of George T. Andrew. 410, cloth, 
$3.75; Turkey morocco, $9.00; tree calf, $9.00; English seal style, $7.00. 
The new volume is akin to the former triumphs of this favorite artist, whose 
" Sketch Books" have achieved a popularity unequalled in the history of fine 
art publications. In the profusion of designs, originality, and delicacy of 
treatment, the charming sketches of mountain, meadow, lake, and forest 
scenery of New England here reproduced are unexcelled. After the wealth of 
illustration which this student of nature has poured into the lap of art, to pro- 
duce a volume in which there is no deterioration of power or beauty, but, if 
possible, mcreased strength and enlargement of ideas, gives assurance that the 
joremost female artist in America will hold the hearts of her legion of admirers. 

NATURE'S HALLELUJAH. Presented in a series of nearly 

fifty full-page original illustrations (9^ x 14 inches), engraved on wood by 

George T. Andrew. Elegantly bound in gold cloth, full gilt, gilt edges, 

$6.00; Turkey morocco, $15.00; tree calf, $15.00; English seal style, $10.00. 

This volume has won the most cordial praise on both sides of the water. 

Mr. Francis H. Underwood, U. S. Consul at Glasgow, writes concerning it: 

" I have never seen anything superior, if equal, to the delicacy and finish of 

the engravings, and the perfection of the press-work. The copy you sent me 

has been looked over with evident and unfeigned delight by many people of 

artistic taste. Every one frankly says, * It is impossible to produce such 

effects here,' and, whether it is possible or not, I am sure it is not done ; no 

such effects are produced on this side of the Atlantic. In this combination of 

art and workmanship, the United States leads the world; and you have a right 

to be proud of the honor of presenting such a specimen to the public. " 

ONE YEAR'S SKETCH BOOK. Containing forty-six full- 
page original illustrations, engraved on wood by Andrew; in same bindings 
and at same prices as " Nature's Hallelujah." 

" Every thick, creamy page is embellished by some gems of art. Sometimes 
it is but a dash and a few trembling strokes; at others an impressive landscape, 
but in all and through all runs the master touch. Miss Jerome has the genius 
of an Angelo, and the execution of a Guido. The beauty of the sketches will 
be apparent to all, having been taken from our unrivalled New England 
scenery." — Washington Chronicle. 

THE MESSAGE OF THE BLUEBIRD, Told to Me 
to Tell to others. Original illustrations engraved on wood by 
Andrew. Cloth and gold, $2.00; palatine boards, ribbon ornaments, $1.00. 
" In its new bindings is one of the daintiest combinations of song and illus- 
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wonderfully artistic touch which render this author's works so popular. The 
pictures are exquisite, and the verses exceedingly graceful, appealing to the 
highest sensibilities. The little volume ranks among the choicest of holiday 
souvenirs, and is beautiful and pleasing." — Boston Transcript. 

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